PTER 


HE 


>RM 


THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


OF 


LOS 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 


AFIER  THE  STORM. 


T.    S.   ARTHUR. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
THE  KEYSTONE  PUBLISHING  CO. 

1890. 


COPTRJGHT 

BT  KEYSTONE  PUBLISHING  CO. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  WAR  or  THE  ELEMENTS 


CHAPTER  II. 
THE  LOVERS. ..*•••••  ......*•«  .*.*•••••  ...•*•••••••••••••••••••••*••*••••••»•••••     17 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE  CLOTTD  AND  THB  SIGN.. ••••••••••••*••••*••••»•••••••*•• 


CHAPTER  IV. 
UNDER  THB  CLOUD 46 


CHAPTER  V. 
THB  BURSTING  OF  THB  STORM. •«..•••*•••.*•••••••  *••*••§••  »••*••*•••*•••    67 


CHAPTER  VI. 
AFTER  THB  STORK*. ••^•••••••••••••••••••••••••••i 


CHAPTER  VIL 
THE  LETTER... 80 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THK  FLIGHT  AND  THB  RBTUBX..., ..„    96 

* 


1 1 1 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

MM 

THE  RECOKCILIATJOX .    103 

CHAPTER  X. 
AFTER  THE  STORM 112 

CHAPTER  XI. 
A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE 117 

CHAPTER  XII. 
IK  BONDS*. ......................... 128 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  REFORMERS .••.*..*•..•....*•..«•••••••••»•«••«••••••..••••  ....*.......•.  138 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  STARTLING  EXPERIENCE 148 

CHAPTER  XV. 
CAPTIVATED  AGAIN 15V 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
WEART  OP  CONSTRAINT 168 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
GONE  FOR  EVER! 178 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
YOUNG,  BUT  WISE 194 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
THE  SHIPWRECKED  LIFE ..  , 204 


CONTENTS.  7 

CHAPTER  XX. 

PAOI 

THE  PALSIED  HEART 217 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

THK  IRREVOCABLE  DECREE 227 

f 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
STRUCK  Down 236 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
THE  HAUNTED  VISION..  .........  .........  ..*......  .....«•..  ..*.....*...  ••••••  247 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
THE  MINISTERING  ANGEL 257 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
BORN  FOR  EACH  OTHER 26fl 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
IjOVE  NEVER  DIES... ......... ...*..... ......*................*...*......*....  276 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
EPFECTS  OF  THE  STORM 288 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
AFTER  THK  STORK „.,,.  Mi 


AFTER  THE  STORM 


CHAPTER    I 

THE    WAR    OF   THE    ELEMENTS. 

TO  June  day  ever  opened  with  a  fairer  ptot-Le 
Not  a  single  cloud  flecked  the  sky,  and  tht 
sun  coursed  onward  through  the  azure  sea  until 
past  meridian,  without  throwing  to  the  earth  a 
single  shadow.  Then,  low  in  the  west,  appeared 
something  obscure  and  hazy,  blending  the  hill-tops 
with  the  horizon ;  an  hour  later,  and  three  or  four 
small  fleecy  islands  were  seen,  clearly  outlined  in 
the  airy  ocean,  and  slowly  ascending — avant-eou- 
riers  of  a  coming  storm.  Following  these  were 
mountain  peaks,  snow-capped  and  craggy,  with 
desolate  valleys  between.  Then,  over  all  this  arc- 
tic panorama,  fell  a  sudden  shadow.  The  white 
tops  of  the  cloudy  hills  lost  their  clenr,  gleaming 
outlines  and  their  slumbrous  stillness.  The  at- 
mosphere was  in  motion,  and  a  white  scud  began 
to  drive  across  the  heavy,  dark  masses  of  clouds 
that  lay  far  back  against  the  sky  in  mountain-like 
repose. 

t 


10  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

How  grandly  now  began  the  onward  march  of 
the  tempest,  which  had  already  invaded  the  sun's 
domain  and  shrouded  his  face  in  the  smoke  of  ap- 
proaching battle.  Dark  and  heavy  it  lay  along 
more  than  half  the  visible  horizon,  while  its  crown 
jivaded  the  zenith. 

As  yet,  all  was  silence  and  portentous  gloom. 
Nrature  seemed  to  pause  and  hold  her  breath  in 
dread  anticipation.  Then  came  a  muffled,  jarring 
sound,  as  of  far  distant  artillery,  which  died  away 
into  an  oppressive  stillness.  Suddenly  from  zenith 
to  horizon  the  cloud  was  cut  by  a  fiery  stroke,  an 
instant  visible.  Following  this,  a  heavy  thunder- 
peal shook  the  solid  earth,  and  rattled  in  booming 
echoes  along  the  hillsides  and  amid  the  cloudy 
caverns  above. 

At  last  the  storm  came  down  on  the  wind's 
strong  pinions,  swooping  fiercely  to  the  earth,  like 
an  eagle  to  its  prey.  For  one  wild  hour  it  raged 
as  if  the  angel  of  destruction  were  abroad. 

At  the  window  of  a  house  standing  picturesquely 
among  the  Hudson  Highlands,  and  looking  down 
upon  the  river,  stood  a  maiden  and  her  lover,  gaz- 
ing upon  this  wild  war  among  the  elements.  Fear 
had  pressed  her  closely  to  his  side,  and  he  had 
drawn  an  arm  around  her  in  assurance  of  safety. 

Suddenly  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  over  her 
face,  cried  out  and  shuddered.  The  lightning  had 
shivered  a  tree  upon  which  her  gaze  was  fixed, 
rending  it  as  she  could  have  rent  a  willow  wand. 


WAR   OF  THE  ELEMENTS.  11 

"  God  is  in  the  storm,"  said  the  lover,  bending 
to  her  ear.  He  spoke  reverently  and  in  a  voice 
that  had  in  it  no  tremor  of  fear. 

The  maiden  withdrew  her  hands  from  before  her 
elmt  eyes,  and  looking  up  into  his  face,  answered 
in  a  voice  which  she  strove  to  make  steady  : 

"  Thank  you,  Hartley,  for  the  words.  Yes,  God 
is  present  in  the  storm,  as  in  the  sunshine." 

"  Look !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  suddenly, 
pointing  to  the  river.  A  boat  had  just  come  in 
sight.  It  contained  a  man  and  a  woman.  The 
former  was  striving  with  a  pair  of  oars  to  keep 
the  boat  right  in  the  eye  of  the  wind ;  but  while 
the  maiden  and  her  lover  still  gazed  at  them,  a 
wild  gust  swept  down  upon  the  water  and  drove 
their  frail  bark  under.  There  was  no  hope  in  their 
case ;  the  floods  had  swallowed  them,  and  would 
not  give  up  their  living  prey. 

A  moment  afterward,  and  an  elm,  whose  great 
arms  had  for  nearly  a  century  spread  themselve* 
out  in  the  sunshine  tranquilly  or  battled  with  the 
storms,  fell  crashing  against  the  house,  shaking  it 
to  the  very  foundations. 

The  maiden  drew  back  from  the  window,  over- 
come with  terror.  These  shocks  were  too  much 
for  her  nerves.  But  her  lover  restrained  her,  say- 
ing, with  a  covert  chiding  in  his  voice, 

"  Stay,  Irene !  There  is  a  wild  delight  in  all 
this,  and  are  you  not  brave  enough  to  share  it\uth 
me?'' 


12  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

But  she  struggled  to  release  herself  from  his 
ami,  replying  with  a  shade  of  impatience — 

"  Let  me  go,  Hartley  !     Let  me  go  !" 

The  flexed  arm  was  instantly  relaxed,  and  the 
imiiden  was  freo.  She  went  back,  hastily,  from  the 
window,  and,  sitting  down  on  a  sofa,  buried  her 
fa<«  in  her  hands.  The  young  man  did  not  follow 
her,  but  remained  standing  by  the  window,  gazing 
out  upon  Nature  in  her  strong  convulsion.  It  may, 
however,  be  doubted  whether  his  mind  took  note 
of  the  wild  images  that  were  pictured  in  his  eyes. 
A  cloud  was  in  the  horizon  of  his  mind,  dimming 
its  heavenly  azure.  And  the  maiden's  sky  was 
shadowed  also. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  the  young  man  stood 
by  the  window,  looking  out  at  the  writhing  trees 
and  the  rain  pouring  down  an  avalanche  of  water, 
and  then,  with  a  movement  that  indicated  a  struggle 
and  a  conquest,  turned  and  walked  toward  the  sofa 
on  which  the  maiden  still  sat  with  her  face  hidden 
from  view.  Sitting  down  beside  her,  he  took  her 
hand.  It  lay  passive  in  his.  He  pressed  it  gently; 
but  she  gave  back  no  returning  pressure.  There 
came  a  sharp,  quick  gleam  of  lightning,  followed 
by  a  crash  that  jarred  the  house.  But  Irene  did 
not  start — we  may  question  whether  she  even  saw 
the  one  or  heard  the  other,  except  as  something 
remote. 

"  Irene !" 

She  :lid  not  stir. 


WAR  OF  THE  ELEMENTS.  13 

The  young  man  leaned  clceer,  and  said,  in  a 
tender  voice — 

"  Irene— darling— " 

Her  hand  moved  in  his— just  moved — but  did 
not  return  the  pressure  of  his  own. 

"  Irene."  And  now  his  arm  stole  around  her. 
She  yielded,  and,  turning,  laid  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder. 

There  had  been  a  little  storm  in  the  maiden's 
heart,  consequent  upon  the  slight  restraint  ventured 
on  by  her  lover  when  she  drew  back  from  the  win- 
dow ;  and  it  was  only  now  subsiding. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  oflfend  you,"  said  the  young 
man,  penitently. 

"  Who  said  that  I  was  offended  ?"  She  looked 
up,  with  a  smile  that  only  half  obliterated  the 
shadow.  "I  was  frightened,  Hartley.  It  is  a 
fearful  storm!"  And  she  glanced  toward  the 
window. 

The  lover  accepted  this  affirmation,  though  he 
knew  better  in  his  heart.  He  knew  that  his  slight 
attempt  at  constraint  had  chafed  her  naturally  im- 
patient spirit,  and  that  It  had  taken  her  some  time 
to  regain  her  lost  self-control. 

Without,  the  wild  rush  of  winds  was  subsiding, 
the  lightning  gleamed  out  less  frequently,  and  the 
thunder  rolled  at  a  farther  distance.  Then  came 
that  deep  stillness  of  nature  which  follows  in  the 
wake  of  the  tempest,  and  in  its  hush  the  lovers 
stood  again  at  the  window,  looking  out  upon  tho 


14  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

wrecks  that  were  strewn  in  its  path.  They  were 
silent,  for  on  both  hearts  was  a  shadow,  which  had 
not  rested  there  when  they  first  stood  by  the  win- 
dow, although  the  sky  was  then  more  deeply  veiled. 
JSo  slight  was  the  cause  on  which  these  shadows 
depended  that  memory  scarcely  retained  its  im- 
pression. He  was  tender,  and  she  was  yielding; 
and  each  tried  to  atone  by  loving  acts  for  a  moment 
of  willfulness. 

The  sun  went  down  while  yet  the  skirts  of  the 
storm  were  spread  over  the  western  sky,  and  with- 
out a  single  glance  at  the  ruins  which  lightning, 
wind  and  rain  had  scattered  over  the  earth's  fair 
surface.  But  he  arose  gloriously  in  the  coming 
morning,  and  went  upward  in  his  strength,  con- 
suming the  vapors  at  a  breath,  and  drinking  up 
every  bright  dewdrop  that  welcomed  him  with  a 
quiver  of  joy.  The  branches  shook  themselves  in 
the  gentle  breezes  his  presence  had  called  forth  to 
dally  amid  their  foliage  and  sport  with  the  flower*; 
and  every  green  thing  put  on  a  fresher  beauty  in 
delight  at  his  retnrn  ;  while  from  the  bosom  of  the 
trees — from  hedgerow  and  from  meadow — went  up 
the  melody  of  birds. 

In  the  brightness  of  this  morning,  the  lovers 
went  out  to  look  at  the  storm- wrecks  that  lay  scat- 
tered around.  Here  a  tree  had  been  twisted  oif 
where  the  tough  wood  measured  by  feet  instead  of 
inches ;  there  stood  the  white  and  shivered  trunk 
of  another  sylvan  lord,  blasted  in  an  instant  by  a 


WAR   OF  THE  ELEMENTS.  15 

lightning  stroke ;  and  there  lay,  prone  upon  the 
ground,  giant  limbs,  which,  but  the  day  before, 
spread  themselves  abroad  in  proud  defiance  of  the 
storm.  Vines  were  torn  from  their  fastenings; 
flower-beds  destroyed ;  choice  shrubbery,  tended 
with  care  for  years,  shorn  of  its  beauty.  Even  the 
solid  earth  had  been  invaded  by  floods  of  water, 
which  ploughed  deep  furrows  along  its  surface. 
And,  saddest  of  all,  two  human  lives  had  gone  out 
while  the  mad  tempest  raged  in  uncontrollable  fury. 

Af  the  lover  and  maiden  stood  looking  at  the 
signs  of  violence  so  thickly  scattered  around,  the 
former  said,  in  a  cheerful  tone — 

"  For  all  his  wild,  desolating  power,  the  tempest 
is  vassal  to  the  sun  and  dew.  He  may  spread  his 
sad  trophies  around  in  brief,  blind  rage ;  but  they 
soon  obliterate  all  traces  of  his  path,  and  make 
beautiful  what  he  has  scarred  with  wounds  or  dis- 
figured by  the  tramp  of  his  iron  heel." 

"  Not  so,  ray  children,"  said  the  calm  voice  of  the 
maiden's  father,  to  whose  ears  the  remark  had  come. 
"  Not  so,  my  children.  The  sun  and  dew  never 
fully  restore  what  the  storm  has  broken  and  tram- 
pled upon.  They  may  hide  disfiguring  marks,  and 
cover  with  new  forms  of  life  and  beauty  the  ruins 
which  time  can  never  restore.  This  is  something, 
and  we  may  take  the  blessing  thankfully,  and  try 
to  forget  what  is  lost,  or  so  changed  as  to  be  no 
longer  desirable.  Look  at  this  fallen  and  shattered 
elm,  my  children.  Is  there  any  hope  for  that  ill 


16  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

the  dew,  the  rain  and  sunshine?  Can  these  buiid 
it  up  again,  and  spread  out  its  arms  as  of  old, 
bringing  back  to  me,  as  it  has  done  daily,  the 
image  of  my  early  years  ?  No,  my  children. 
After  every  storm  are  ruins  which  can  never  be 
repaired.  Is  it  not  so  with  that  lightning-stricken 
oak?  And  what  art  can  restore  to  its  exquisite 
loveliness  this  statue  of  Hope,  'thrown  down  by 
the  ruthless  hand  of  the  unsparing  tempest  ? 
Moreover,  is  there  human  vitality  in  the  sunshine 
and  fructifying  dew?  Can  they  put  life  into  the 
dead? 

"No — no — my  children.  And  take  the  lesson 
to  heart.  Outward  tempests  but  typify  and  repre- 
sent the  fiercer  tempests  that  too  often  desolate  the 
human  soul.  In  either  case  something  is  lost  that 
can  never  be  restored.  Beware,  then,  of  storms, 
for  wreck  and  ruin  follow  as  surelv  as  the  passions 
rage." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  LOVERS. 

jjfRENE  DELANCY  was  a  girl  of  quick, 
II  strong  feelings,  and  an  undisciplined  will. 
Jl  Her  mother  died  before  she  reached  her  tenth 
•^  year.  From  that  time  she  was  either  at  home, 
under  the  care  of  domestics,  or  within  the  scarcely 
more  favorable  surroundings  of  a  boarding-school. 
She  grew  up  beautiful  and  accomplished,  but  capri- 
cious and  with  a  natural  impatience  of  control,  that 
unwise  reactions  on  the  part  of  those  who  attempted 
to  govern  her  in  no  degree  tempered. 

Hartley  Emerson,  as  a  boy,  was  self-willed  and 
passionate,  but  possessed  many  fine  qualities.  A 
weak  mother  yielded  to  his  resolute  struggles  to 
have  his  own  way,  and  so  he  acquired,  at  an  early 
age,  control  over  his  own  movements.  He  went  to 
college,  studied  hard,  because  he  was  ambitious, 
and  graduated  with  honor.  Law  he  chose  as  a 
profession;  and,  in  order  to  secure  the  highest  ad- 
vantages, entered  the  office  of  a  distinguished  attor- 
ney in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  gave  to  its  study 
(lie  best  efforts  of  a  clear,  acute  and  logical  mind. 
Self-reliant,  proud,  and  in  the  habit  of  reaching  his 
ends  by  the  nearest  ways,  he  took  his  place  at  the 

2  17 


Ib  AFTER  TTTE  STORM. 

bar  with  a  promise  of  success  rarely  exceeded. 
From  his  widowed  mother,  who  died  before  he 
reached  his  majority,  Hartley  Emerson  inherited  a 
moderate  fortune  with  which  to  begin  the  world. 
Few  young  men  started  forward  on  their  life-jour- 
ney with  so  small  a  number  of  vices,  or  with  so 
spotless  a  moral  character.  The  fine  intellectual 
cast  of  his  mind,  and  his  devotion  to  study,  lifted 
him  above  the  baser  allurements  of  sense  and  kept 
his  garments  pure. 

Such  were  Irene  Delancy  and  Hartley  Emerson — 
lovers  and  betrotned  at  the  time  we  present  them 
to  our  readers.  They  met,  two  years  before,  at 
Saratoga,  and  drew  together  by  a  mutual  attraction. 
She  was  the  first  to  whom  his  heart  had  bowed  in 
homage ;  and  until  she  looked  upon  him  her  pulse 
had  never  beat  quicker  at  sight  of  a  manly  form. 

Mr.  Edmund  Delancy,  a  gentleman  of  some 
wealth  and  advanced  in  years,  saw  no  reason  to 
interpose  objections.  The  family  of  Emerson  oc- 
cupied a  social  position  equal  with  his  own ;  and 
the  young  man's  character  and  habits  were  blame- 
less. So  far,  the  course  of  love  ran  smooth ;  and 
only  three  months  intervened  until  the  wedding- 
day. 

The  closer  relation  into  which  the  minds  of  the 
lovers  came  after  their  betrothal  and  the  removal 
of  a  degree  of  deference  and  self-constraint,  gave 
opportunity  for  the  real  character  of  each  to  show 
itself.  Irene  could  not  always  repress  her  willful 


THE  LOVERS.  19 

ness  and  impatience  of  another's  control ;  nor  her 
lover  hold  a  firm  hand  on  quick-springing  anger 
when  anything  checked  his  purpose.  Pride  and 
adhesiveness  of  character,  under  such  conditions  of 
mind,  were  dangerous  foes  to  peace ;  and  both  were 
proud  and  tenacious. 

The  little  break  in  the  harmonious  flow  of  their 
lives,  noticed  as  occurring  while  the  tempest  raged, 
was  one  of  many  such  incidents;  and  it  was  in 
consequence  of  Mr.  Delancy's  observation  of  these 
unpromising  features  in  their  intercourse  that  he 
spoke  with  so  much  earnestness  about  the  irrepara- 
ble ruin  that  followed  in  the  wake  of  storms. 

At  least  once  a  week  Emerson  left  the  city,  and 
his  books  and  cases,  to  spend  a  day  with  Irene  in 
her  tasteful  home ;  and  sometimes  he  lingered  there 
for  two  or  three  days  at  a  time.  It  happened, 
almost  invariably,  that  some  harsh  notes  jarred 
in  the  music  of  their  lives  during  these  pleasant 
seasons,  and  left  on  both  their  hearts  a  feeling  of 
oppression,  or,  worse,  a  brooding  sense  of  injustice. 
Then  there  grew  up  between  them  an  affected  oppo- 
sition and  indifference,  and  a  kind  of  half-sportive, 
half-earnest  wrangling  about  trifles,  which  too  often 
grew  serious. 

Mr.  Delancy  saw  this  with  a  feeling  of  regret, 
and  often  interposed  to  restore  some  broken  links 
HI  the  chain  of  harmony. 

"You  must  be  more  conciliating,  Irene,"  he 
would  often  say  to  his  daughter.  "  Hartley  »s 


20  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

earnest  and  impulsive,  and  you  should  yield  to 
him  gracefully,  even  when  you  do  not  always  see 
and  feel  as  he  does.  This  constant  opposition  and 
standing  on  your  dignity  about  trifles  is  fretting 
both  of  you,  and  bodes  evil  in  the  future." 

"Would  you  have  me  assent  if  he  said  black 
was  white?"  she  answered  to  her  father's  remon- 
strance one  day,  balancing  her  little  head  firmly 
and  setting  her  lips  together  in  a  resolute  way. 

"  It  might  be  wiser  to  say  nothing  than  to  utter 
dissent,  if,  in  so  doing,  both  were  made  unhappy," 
returned  her  father. 

"And  so  let  him  think  me  a  passive  fool  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  No ;  a  prudent  girl,  shaming  his  unreasonable- 
ness by  her  self-control." 

"  I  have  read  somewhere,"  said  Irene,  "  that  all 
men  are  self-willed  tyrants — the  words  do  not  apply 
to  you,  my  father,  and  so  there  is  an  exception  to 
the  rule."  She  smiled  a  tender  smile  as  she  looked 
into  the  face  of  a  parent  who  had  ever  been  too 
indulgent.  "But,  from  my  experience  with  a 
lover,  I  can  well  believe  the  sentiment  based  in 
truth.  Hartley  must  have  me  think  just  as  he 
thinks,  and  do  what  he  wants  me  to  do,  or  he  gets 
ruffled.  Now  I  don't  expect,  when  I  am  married, 
to  sink  into  a  mere  nobody — to  be  my  husband's 
echo  and  shadow;  and  the  quicker  I  can  make 
Hartley  comprehend  this  the  better  will  it  be  for 
both  of  us.  A  few  rufflings  of  his  feathers  now 


THE  LOVERS.  21 

will  teach  him  how  to  keep  them  smooth  and 
glossy  in  the  time  to  come." 

"You  are  in  error,  my  child,"  replied  Mr.  De- 
lancy,  speaking  very  seriously.  "  Between  those 
who  love  a  cloud  should  never  interpose;  and  I 
pray  you,  Irene,  as  you  value  your  peace  and  that 
of  the  man  who  is  about  to  become  your  husband, 
to  be  wise  in  the  very  beginning,  and  dissolve  with 
a  smile  of  affection  every  vapor  that  threatens  a 
coming  storm.  Keep  the  sky  always  bright." 

"  I  will  do  everything  that  I  can,  father,  to  keep 
the  sky  of  our  lives  always  bright,  except  give  up 
my  own  freedom  of  thought  and  independence  of 
action.  A  wife  should  not  sink  her  individuality 
in  that  of  her  husband,  any  more  than  a  husband 
should  sink  his  individuality  in  that  of  his  wife. 
They  are  two  equals,  and  should  be  content  to 
remain  equals.  There  is  no  love  in  subordination." 

Mr.  Delancy  sighed  deeply :  "  Is  argument  of 
any  avail  here  ?  Can  words  stir  conviction  in  her 
mind  ?"  He  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  said — • 

"  Better,  Irene,  that  you  stop  where  you  are,  and 
go  through  life  alone,  than  venture  upon  marriage, 
in  your  state  of  feeling,  with  a  man  like  Hartley 
Emerson." 

"  Dear  father,  you  are  altogether  too  serious !" 
exclaimed  the  warm-hearted  girl,  putting  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  kissing  him.  "  Hartley  and 
I  love  each  other  too  well  to  be  made  very  un- 
happy by  any  little  jar  that  takes  place  in  the  first 


22  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

reciprocal  movement  of  our  lives.  AVe  shall  soon 
come  to  understand  each  other,  and  then  the  har- 
monies will  be  restored." 

"  The  harmonies  should  never  be  lost,  my  child," 
returned  Mr.  Delancy.  "  In  that  lies  the  danger. 
When  the  enemy  gets  into  the  citadel,  who  can  say 
that  he  will  ever  be  dislodged  ?  There  is  no  safety 
but  in  keeping  him  out." 

"  Still  too  serious,  father,"  said  Irene.  "  There 
is  no  danger  to  be  feared  from  any  formidable 
enemy.  All  these  are  very  little  things." 

"  It  is  the  little  foxes  that  spoil  the  tender  grapes, 
my  daughter,"  Mr.  Delancy  replied ;  "  and  if  the 
tender  grapes  are  spoiled,  what  hope  is  there  in  the 
time  of  vintage?  Alas  for  us  if  in  the  later  years 
the  wine  of  life  shall  fail !" 

There  was  so  sad  a  tone  in  her  father's  voice,  and 
so  sad  an  expression  on  his  face,  that  Irene  was 
touched  with  a  new  feeling  toward  him.  She  again 
put  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him  ten- 
derly. 

"  Do  not  fear  for  us,"  she  replied.  "  These  are 
only  little  summer  showers,  that  make  the  earth 
greener  and  the  flowers  more  beautiful.  The  sky 
is  of  a  more  heavenly  azure  when  they  pass  away, 
and  the  sun  shines  more  gloriously  than  before." 

But  the  father  could  not  be  satisfied,  and  an- 
swered— 

"  Beware  of  even  summer  showers,  my  darling. 
I  have  known  fearful  ravages  to  follow  in  their 


THE  LOVERS.  23 

path — seen  many  a  goodly  tree  go  down.  After 
every  storm,  though  the  sky  may  be  clearer,  the 
earth  upon  which  it  fell  has  suffered  some  loss 
which  is  a  loss  for  ever.  Begin,  then,  by  concilia- 
tion and  forbearance.  Look  past  the  external, 
which  may  seem  at  times  too  exacting  or  impera- 
tive, and  see  only  the  true  heart  pulsing  beneath — 
the  true,  brave  heart,  that  would  give  to  every 
muscle  the  strength  of  steel  for  your  protection  if 
danger  threatened.  Can  you  not  be  satisfied  with 
knowing  that  you  are  loved — deeply,  truly,  ten- 
derly ?  What  more  can  a  woman  ask  ?  Can  you 
not  wait  until  this  love  puts  on  its  rightly-adjusted 
exterior,  as  it  assuredly  will.  It  is  yet  mingled 
with  self-love,  and  its  action  modified  by  impulse 
and  habit.  Wait — wait — wait,  my  daughter.  Bear 
and  forbear  for  a  time,  as  you  value  peace  on  earth 
and  happiness  in  heaven." 

"  I  will  try,  father,  for  your  sake,  to  guard  my- 
self," she  answered. 

"  No,  no,  Irene.  Not  for  my  sake,  but  for  the 
Bake  of  right,"  returned  Mr.  Delancy. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  vine-covered  portico 
that  looked  down  over  a  sloping  lawn  toward  the 
river. 

"  There  is  Hartley  now !"  exclaimed  Irene,  as  the 
form  of  her  lover  came  suddenly  into  view,  moving 
forward  along  the  road  that  approached  from  the 
landing,  and  she  sprung  forward  and  went  rapidly 
down  to  meet  him.  There  was  an  ardent  kiss,  a 


24  AFTER  THE  STORK. 

twining  of  arms,  warmly  spoken  words  and  earnest 
gestures.  Mr.  Delancy  looked  at  them  as  they 
stood  fondly  together,  and  sighed.  He  could  not 
help  it,  for  he  knew  there  was  trouble  before  them. 
After  standing  and  talking  for  a  short  time,  they 
began  moving  toward  the  house,  but  paused  at 
every  few  paces — sometimes  to  admire  a  pictu- 
resque view — sometimes  to  listen  one  to  the  other 
and  respond  to  pleasant  sentiments — and  sometimes 
in  fond  dispute.  This  was  Mr.  Delancy's  reading 
of  their  actions  and  gestures,  as  he  sat  looking  at 
and  observing  them  closely. 

A  little  way  from  the  path  by  which  they  were 
advancing  toward  the  house  was  a  rustic  arbor,  so 
placed  as  to  command  a  fine  sweep  of  river  from 
one  line  of  view  and  West  Point  from  another. 
Irene  paused  and  made  a  motion  of  her  hand  to- 
ward this  arbor,  as  if  she  wished  to  go  there ;  but 
Hartley  looked  to  the  house  and  plainly  signified  a 
wish  to  go  there  first.  At  this  Irene  pulled  him 
gently  toward  the  arbor ;  he  resisted,  and  she  drew 
upon  his  arm  more  resolutely,  when,  planting  his 
feet  firmly,  he  stood  like  a  rock.  Still  she  urged 
and  still  he  declined  going  in  that  direction.  It 
was  play  at  first,  but  Mr.  Delancy  saw  that  it  was 
growing  to  be  earnest.  A  few  moments  longer,  and 
he  saw  Irene  separate  from  Hartley  and  move  to- 
ward the  arbor ;  at  the  same  time  the  young  man 
came  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  Mr. 
Delancy,  as  he  stepped  from  the  portico  to  meet 


THE  LOVERS.  25 

him,  noticed  that  his  color  was  heightened  and  hia 
eyes  unusually  bright. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  that  self-willed  girl  of 
mine  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  took  the  hand  of  Emerson, 
affecting  a  lightness  of  tone  that  did  not  correspond 
with  his  real  feelings. 

"  Oh,  nothing  serious,"  the  young  man  replied. 
"  She's  only  in  a  little  pet  because  I  wouldn't  go 
with  her  to  the  arbor  before  I  paid  my  respects  to 
you." 

"  She's  a  spoiled  little  puss/'  said  the  father,  in 
a  fond  yet  serious  way,  "  and  you'll  have  to  humor 
her  a  little  at  first,  Hartley.  She  never  had  the 
wise  discipline  of  a  mother,  and  so  has  grown  up 
unused  to  that  salutary  control  which  is  so  neces- 
sary for  young  persons.  But  she  has  a  warm,  true 
heart  and  pure  principles ;  and  these  are  the  foun- 
dation-stones on  which  to  build  the  temple  of  hap- 
piness." 

"  Don't  fear  but  that  it  will  be  all  right  between 
us.  I  love  her  too  well  to  let  any  flitting  humors 
affect  me." 

He  stepped  upon  the  portico  as  he  spoke  and  sat 
down. .  Irene  had  before  this  reached  the  arbor  and 
taken  a  seat  there.  Mr.  Delancy  could  do  no  less 
than  resume  the  chair  from  which  he  had  arisen  on 
the  young  man's  approach.  In  looking  into  Hart- 
ley's face  he  noticed  a  resolute  expression  about 
his  mouth.  For  nearly  ten  minutes  they  sat  and 
talked,  Irene  remaining  alone  in  the  arbor.  Mr. 


26  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

Delancy  then  said,  in  a  pleasant,  off-handed 
way, 

"Come,  Hartley,  you  have  punished  her  long 
enough.  I  don't  like  to  see  you  even  play  at  dis- 
agreement." 

He  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  remark,  but 
started  a  subject  of  conversation  that  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  dismiss  for  the  next  ten  minutes. 
Then  he  stepped  down  from  the  portico,  and  was 
moving  leisurely  toward  the  arbor  when  he  per- 
ceived that  Irene  had  already  left  it  and  was  return- 
ing by  another  path.  So  he  came  back  and  seated 
himself  again,  to  await  her  approach.  But,  instead 
of  joining  him,  she  passed  round  the  house  and 
entered  on  the  opposite  side.  For  several  minutes 
he  sat,  expecting  every  instant  to  see  her  come  out 
on  the  portico,  but  she  did  not  make  her  appear- 
ance. 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon.  Hartley,  affecting 
not  to  notice  the  absence  of  Irene,  kept  up  an  ani- 
mated conversation  with  Mr.  Delancy.  A  whole 
hour  went  by,  and  still  the  young  lady  was  absent. 
Suddenly  starting  up,  at  the  end  of  this  time, 
Hartley  exclaimed — 

"As  I  live,  there  comes  the  boat!  and  I  must 
be  in  New  York  to-night." 

"  Stay,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  "  until  I  call  Irene.'" 

"  I  can't  linger  for  a  moment,  sir.  It  will  take 
quick  walking  to  reach  the  landing  by  the  time  the 
boat  is  there."  The  young  man  spoke  hurriedly, 


THE  LOVERS.  27 

shook  hands  with  Mr.  Delancy,  and  then  sprung 
away,  moving  at  a  rapid  pace. 

"  What's  the  matter,  father  ?  Where  is  Hartley 
going  ?"  exclaimed  Irene,  coming  out  into  the  por- 
tico and  grasping  her  father's  arm.  Her  face  waa 
pale  and  her  lips  trembled. 

"He  is  going  to  New -York,"  replied  Mr.  De- 
lancy. 

"To  New  York!"  She  looked  almost  fright- 
ened. 

"  Yes.  The  boat  is  coming,  and  he  says  that  he 
must  be  in  the  city  to-night." 

Irene  sat  down,  looking  pale  and  troubled. 

"  Why  have  you  remained  away  from  Hartley 
ever  since  his  arrival  ?"  asked  Mr.  Delancy,  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  Irene  and  evincing  some  displeasure. 

Irene  did  not  answer,  but  her  father  saw  the 
color  coming  back  to  her  face. 

"  I  think,  from  his  manner,  that  he  was  hurt  by 
your  singular  treatment.  What  possessed  you  to 
do  so  ?" 

"Because  I  was  not  pleased  with  him/'  said 
Irene.  Her  voice  was  now  steady. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  wished  him  to  go  to  the  arbor." 

"  He  was  your  guest,  and,  in  simple  courtesy,  if 
there  was  no  other  motive,  you  should  have  let  his 
wishes  govern  your  movements,"  Mr.  Delancy 
replied. 

"  He  is  always  opposing  me !"  said  Irene,  giving 


28  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

way  to  a  flood  of  tears  and  weeping  for  a  time 
bitterly. 

"  It  is  not  at  all  unlikely,  my  daughter,"  replied 
Mr.  Delancy,  after  the  tears  began  to  flow  less 
freely,  "  that  Hartley  is  now  saying  the  same  thing 
of  you,  and  treasuring  up  bitter  things  in  his  heart. 
I  have  no  idea  that  any  business  calls  him  to  New 
York  to-night." 

"  Nor  I.  He  takes  this  means  to  punish  me," 
said  Irene. 

"Don't  take  that  for  granted.  Your  conduct 
has  blinded  him,  and  he  is  acting  now  from  blind 
impulse.  Before  he  is  half-way  to  New  York  he 
Avill  regret  this  hasty  step  as  sincerely  as  I  trust 
you  are  already  regretting  its  occasion." 

Irene  did  not  reply. 

"  I  did  not  think,"  he  resumed,  "  that  my  late 
earnest  remonstrance  would  have  so  soon  received 
an  illustration  like  this.  But  it  may  be  as  well. 
Trifles  light  as  air  have  many  times  proved  the 
beginning  of  life-long  separations  between  friends 
and  lovers  who  possessed  all  the  substantial  quali- 
ties for  a  life-long  and  happy  companionship.  Oh, 
my  daughter,  beware !  beware  of  these  little  begin- 
nings of  discord.  How  easy  would  it  have  been 
for  you  to  have  yielded  to  Hartley's  wishes  ! — how 
hard  will  it  to  endure  the  pain  that  must  now  bo 
suffered!  And  remember  that  you  do  not  suffer 
alone ;  your  conduct  has  made  him  an  equal  suf- 
ferer. He  came  up  all  the  way  from  the  city  full 


THE  LOVERS.  29 

of  sweet  anticipations.  It  was  for  your  sake  that 
he  came ;  and  love  pictured  you  as  embodying  all 
attractions.  But  how  has  he  found  you  ?  Ah,  my 
daughter,  your  caprice  has  wounded  the  heart  that 
turned  to  you  for  love.  He  came  in  joy,  but  goes 
back  in  sorrow." 

Irene  went  up  to  her  chamber,  feeling  sadder 
than  she  had  ever  felt  in  her  life;  yet,  mingling 
with  her  sadness  and  self-reproaches,  were  com- 
plaining thoughts  of  her  lover.  For  a  little  half- 
playful  pettishness  was  she  to  be  visited  with  a 
punishment  like  this  ?  If  he  had  really  loved  her 
— so  she  queried — would  he  have  flung  himself 
away  after  this  hasty  fashion  ?  Pride  came  to  her 
aid  in  the  conflict  of  feeling,  and  gave  her  self- 
control  and  endurance.  At  tea-time  she  met  her 
father,  and  surprised  him  with  her  calm,  almost 
cheerful,  aspect.  But  his  glance  was  too  keen  not 
to  penetrate  the  disguise.  After  tea,  she  sat  read- 
ing— or  at  least  affecting  to  read — in  the  portico, 
until  the  evening  shadows  came  down,  and  then 
she  retired  to  her  chamber. 

Not  many  hours  of  sleep  brought  forgetfulness 
of  suffering  through  the  night  that  followed. 
Sometimes  the  unhappy  girl  heaped  mountains 
of  reproaches  upon  her  own  head ;  and  sometimes 
pride  and  indignation,  gaining  rule  in  her  heart, 
would  whisper  self-justification,  and  throw  the 
weight  of  responsibility  upon  her  lover. 

Her  pale  face  and  troubled  eyes   revealed  too 


30  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

plainly,  on  the  next  morning,  the  conflict  through 
which  she  had  pas.-ed. 

"  Write  him  a  letter  of  apology  or  explanation," 
said  Mr.  Delancy. 

But  Irene  was  not  in  a  state  of  mind  for  this. 
Pride  came  whispering  too  many  humiliating  ob- 
jections in  her  ear.  Morning  passed,  and  in  the 
early  hours  of  the  afternoon,  when  the  New  York 
boat  usually  came  up  the  river,  she  was  out  on  the 
portico  watching  for  its  appearance.  Hope  whis- 
pered that,  repenting  of  his  hasty  return  on  the 
day  before,  her  lover  was  now  hurrying  back  to 
meet  her.  At  last  the  white  hull  of  the  boat  came 
gliding  into  view,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  it 
was  at  the  landing.  Then  it  moved  on  its  course 
again.  Almost  to  a  second  of  time  had  Irene 
learned  to  calculate  the  minutes  it  required  for 
Hartley  to  make  the  distance  between  the  landing 
and  the  nearest  point  in  the  road  where  his  form 
could  meet  her  view.  She  held  her  breath  in  eager 
expectation  as  that  moment  of  time  approached. 
It  came — it  passed;  the  white  spot  in  the  road, 
where  his  dark  form  first  revealed  itself,  was 
touched  by  no  obscuring  shadow.  For  more  than 
ten  minutes  Irene  sat  motionless,  gazing  still  to- 
ward that  point;  then,  sighing  deeply,  she  arose 
and  went  up  to  her  room,  from  which  she  did  not 
come  down  until  summoned  to  join  her  father  at 
tea. 

The  next  day  passed  as  this  had  done,  and  so  did 


THE  LOVERS.  31 

the  next.  Hartley  neither  came  nor  sent  a  message 
of  any  kind.  The  maiden's  heart  began  to  fail. 
Grief  and  fear  took  the  place  of  accusation  and 
self-reproach.  What  if  he  had  left  her  for  ever ! 
The  thought  made  her  heart  shiver  as  if  an  icy 
wind  had  passed  over  it.  Two  or  three  times  she 
took  up  her  pen  to  write  him  a  few  words  and 
entreat  him  to  come  back  to  her  again.  But  she 
could  form  no  sentences  against  which  pride  did 
not  come  with  strong  objection ;  and  so  she  suffered 
on,  and  made  no  sign. 

A  whole  week  at  last  intervened.  Then  the  en- 
during heart  began  to  grow  stronger  to  bear,  and, 
in  self-protection,  to  put  on  sterner  moods.  Hera 
was  not  a  spirit  to  yield  weakly  in  any  struggle. 
She  was  formed  for  endurance,  pride  and  self- 
reliance  giving  her  strength  above  common  natures. 
But  this  did  not  really  lessen  her  suffering,  for  she 
was  not  only  capable  of  deep  affection,  but  really 
loved  Hartley  almost  as  her  own  life;  and  the 
thought  of  losing  him,  whenever  it  grew  distinct, 
filled  her  with  terrible  anguish. 

With  pain  her  father  saw  the  color  leave  her 
cheeks,  her  eyes  grow  fixed  and  dreamy,  and  her 
lips  shrink  from  their  full  outline. 

"Write  to  Hartley,"  he  said  to  her  one  day, 
after  a  week  had  passed. 

-  "  Never !"  was  her  quick,  firm,  almost  sharply 
uttered  response ;  "  I  would  die  first !" 

"  But,  my  daughter — " 


32  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

• 

"  Father,"  she  interrupted  him,  two  bright  spots 
suddenly  burning  on  her  cheeks,  "don't,  I  pray 
you,  urge  me  on  this  point.  I  have  courage  enough 
lo  break,  but  I  will  not  bend.  I  gave  him  no 
offence.  What  right  has  he  to  assume  that  I  was 
not  engaged  in  domestic  duties  while  he  sat  talking 
with  you?  He  said  that  he  had  an  engagement  in 
New  York.  Very  well;  there  was  a  sufficient 
reason  for  his  sudden  departure ;  and  I  accept  the 
reason.  But  why  does  he  remain  away  ?  If  sim- 
ply because  I  preferred  a  seat  in  the  arbor  to  one 
in  the  portico,  why,  the  whole  thing  is  so  un- 
manly, that  I  can  have  no  patience  with  it.  Write 
to  him,  and  humor  a  whim  like  this !  No,  no — 
Irene  Delancy  is  not  made  of  the  right  stuff.  He 
went  from  me,  and  he  must  return  again.  I  can- 
not go  to  him.  Maiden  modesty  and  pride  forbid. 
And  so  I  shall  remain  silent  and  passive,  if  my 
heart  breaks." 

It  was  in  the  afternoon,  and  they  were  sitting  in 
the  portico,  where,  at  this  hour,  Irene  might  have 
been  found  every  day  for  the  past  week.  The  boat 
from  New  York  came  in  sight  as  she  closed  the  last 
sentence.  She  saw  it — for  her  eyes  were  on  the 
look-out — the  moment  it  turned  the  distant  point 
of  land  that  hid  the  river  beyond.  Mr.  Delancy 
also  observed  the  boat.  Its  appearance  was  an 
incident  of  sufficient  importance,  taking  things  as 
they  were,  to  check  the  conversation,  which  was  far 
from  being  satisfactory  on  either  side. 


THE  LOVERS,  33 

The  figure  of  Irene  was  half  buried  in  a  deep 
cushioned  chair,  which  had  been  wheeled  out  upon 
the  portico,  and  now  her  small,  slender  form  seemed 
to  shrink  farther  back  among  the  cushions,  and  she 
sat  as  motionless  as  one  asleep.  Steadily  onward 
came  the  boat,  throwing  backward  her  dusky  trail 
and  lashing  with  her  great  revolving  wheels  the 
quiet  waters  into  foamy  turbulence — onward,  until 
the  dark  crowd  of  human  forms  could  be  seen  upon 
her  decks ;  then,  turning  sharply,  she  was  lost  to 
view  behind  a  bank  of  forest  trees.  Ten  minutes 
more,  and  the  shriek  of  escaping  steam  was  heard, 
as  she  stopped  her  ponderous  machinery  at  the 
landing. 

From  that  time  Irene  almost  held  her  breath,  as 
she  counted  the  moments  that  must  elapse  before 
Hartley  could  reach  the  point  of  view  in  the  road 
that  led  up  from  the  river,  should  he  have  been  a 
passenger  in  the  steamboat.  The  number  was  fully 
told,  but  it  was  to-day  as  yesterday.  There  was 
no  sign  of  his  coming.  And  so  the  eyelids,  weary 
with  vain  expectation,  drooped  heavily  over  the 
dimming  eyes.  But  she  had  not  stirred,  nor  shown 
a  sign  of  feeling.  A  little  while  she  sat  with  her 
long  lashes  shading  her  pale  cheeks ;  then  she 
slowly  raised  them  and  looked  out  toward  the 
river  again.  What  a  quick  start  she  gave !  Did 
her  eyes  deceive  her  ?  No,  it  was  Hartley,  just  in 
the  spot  she  had  looked  to  see  him  only  a  minute 
or  two  before.  But  how  slowly  he  moved,  and 
3 


34  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

with  what  a  weary  step !  and,  even  at  this  long 
distance,  his  face  looked  white  against  the  wavy 
masses  of  his  dark-brown  hair. 

Irene  started  up  with  an  exclamation,  stood  as 
if  in  doubt  for  a  moment,  then,  springing  from  the 
]>ortico,  she  went  flying  to  meet  him,  as  swiftly  aa 
if  moving  on  winged  feet.  All  the  forces  of  her 
ardent,  impulsive  nature  were  bearing  her  forward. 
There  was  no  remembrance  of  coldness  or  imagined 
wrong — pride  did  not  even  struggle  to  lift  its  head 
— love  conquered  everything.  The  young  man 
stood  still,  from  weariness  or  surprise,  ere  she 
reached  him.  As  she  drew  near,  Irene  saw  that 
his  face  was  not  only  pale,  but  thin  and  wasted. 

"  Oh,  Hartley !  dear  Hartley !"  came  almost 
wildly  from  her  lips,  as  she  flung  her  arms  around 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  over  and  over  again,  ou 
lips,  cheeks  and  brow,  with  an  ardor  and  tender- 
ness that  no  maiden  delicacy  could  restrain.  "  Have 
you  been  sick  or  hurt?  Why  are  you  so  pale, 
darling?" 

"  I  have  been  ill  for  a  week — ever  since  I  was 
last  here,"  the  young  man  replied,  speaking  in  a 
slow,  tremulous  voice. 

"And  I  knew  it  not !"  Tears  were  glittering  in 
her  eyes  and  pressing  out  in  great  pearly  beads 
from  between  the  fringing  lashes.  "  Why  did  you 
not  send  for  me,  Hartley  ?" 

And  she  laid  her  small  hands  upon  each  side  of 
his  face,  as  you  have  seen  a  mother  press  the  cheeks 


THE  LOVERS.  35 

of  her  child,  and  looked  up  tenderly  into  his  love- 
beaming  eyes. 

"  But  come,  dear,"  she  added,  removing  her 
hands  from  his  face  and  drawing  her  arm  within 
his — not  to  lean  on,  but  to  offer  support.  "  My 
father,  who  has,  with  me,  suffered  great  anxiety  on 
your  account,  is  waiting  your  arrival  at  the  house." 

Then,  with  slow  steps,  they  moved  along  the 
upward  sloping  way,  crowding  the  moments  with 
loving  words. 

And  so  the  storm  passed,  and  the  sun  came  out 
again  in  the  firmament  of  their  souls.  But  looked 
he  down  on  no  tempest-marks?  Had  not  the 
ruthless  tread  of  passion  marred  the  earth's  fair 
surface  ?  Were  no  goodly  trees  uptorn,  or  clinging 
vines  wrenched  from  their  support  ?  Alas !  was 
there  ever  a  storm  that  did  not  leave  some  ruined 
hope  behind  ?  ever  a  storm  that  did  not  strew  the 
sea  with  wrecks  or  mar  the  earth's  fair  beauty  ? 

As  when  the  pain  of  a  crushed  limb  ceases  there 
comes  to  the  sufferer  a  sense  of  delicious  ease,  so, 
after  the  storm  had  passed,  the  lovers  sat  in  the 
warm  sunshine  and  dreamed  of  unclouded  happi- 
ness in  the  future.  But  in  the  week  that  Hartley 
spent  with  his  betrothed  were  revealed  to  their 
eyes,  many  times,  desolate  places  where  flowers  had 
been;  and  their  hearts  grew  sad  as  they  turned 
their  eyes  away,  and  sighed  for  hopes  departed, 
faith  shaken,  and  untroubled  confidence  in  each 
other  for  the  future  before  them,  for  ever  gone. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  CLOUD  AND   THE  SIGN. 

'jjfN  alternate  storm  and  sunshine  their  lives 
II  passed  on,  until  the  appointed  day  arrived 
jl  that  was  to  see  them  bound,  not  by  the  grace- 
•'  ful  true-lovers'  knot,  which  either  might  untie, 
but  by  a  chain  light  as  downy  fetters  if  borne  in 
mutual  love,  and  galling  as  ponderous  iron  links, 
if  heart  answered  not  heart  and  the  chafing  spirit 
struggled  to  get  free. 

Hartley  Emerson  loved  truly  the  beautiful,  tal- 
ented and  affectionate,  but  badly-disciplined,  quick- 
tempered, self-willed  girl  he  had  chosen  for  a  wife ; 
and  Irene  Delancy  would  have  gone  to  prison  and 
to  death  for  the  sake  of  the  man  to  whom  she  had 
yielded  up  the  rich  treasures  of  her  young  heart. 
In  both  cases  the  great  drawback  to  happiness  was 
the  absence  of  self-discipline,  self-denial  and  self- 
conquest.  They  could  overcome  difficulties,  brave 
danger,  set  the  world  at  defiance,  if  need  be,  for 
each  other,  and  not  a  coward  nerve  give  way ;  but 
when  pride  and  passion  came  between  them,  each 
was  a  child  in  weakness  and  blind  self-will.  Un- 
fortunately, persistence  of  character  was  strong  in 
both.  They  were  of  such  stuff  as  martyrs  were 

26 


THE  CLOUD  AND  THE  SIGN.  37 

made  of  in  the  fiery  times  of  power  and  perse- 
cution. 

A  brighter,  purer  morning  than  that  on  which 
their  marriage  vows  were  said  the  year  had  not 
given  to  the  smiling  earth.  Clear  and  softly  blue 
as  the  eye  of  childhood  bent  the  summer  sky  above 
them.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in  all  the  tranquil 
heavens  to  give  suggestion  of  dreary  days  to  come 
or  to  wave  a  sign  of  warning.  The  blithe  birds 
sung  their  matins  amid  the  branches  that  hung 
their  leafy  drapery  around  and  above  Irene's  win- 
dows, in  seeming  echoes  to  the  songs  love  was 
singing  in  her  heart.  Nature  put  on  the  loveliest 
attire  in  all  her  ample  wardrobe,  and  decked  herself 
with  coronals  and  wreaths  of  flowers  that  loaded 
the  air  with  sweetness. 

"May  your  lives  flow  together  like  two  pure 
streams  that  meet  in  the  same  valley,  and  as  bright 
a  "sky  bend  always  over  you  as  gives  its  serene 
promise  for  to-day." 

Thus  spoke  the  minister  as  the  ceremonials  closed 
that  wrought  the  external  bond  of  union  between 
them.  His  words  were  uttered  with  feeling  and 
solemnity ;  for  marriage,  in  his  eyes,  was  no  light 
tiling.  He  had  seen  too  many  sad  hearts  strug- 
gling in  chains  that  only  death  could  break,  ever 
to  regard  marriage  with  other  than  sober  thoughts 
that  went  questioning  away  into  the  future. 

The  "amen"  of  Mr.  Delancy  was  not  audibly 
spoken,  but  it  was  deep-voiced  in  his  heart. 


38  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

There  was  to  be  a  wedding-tour  of  a  few  weeks, 
and  then  the  young  couple  were  to  take  possession 
of  a  new  home  in  the  city,  which  Mr.  Emerson 
had  prepared  for  his  bride.  The  earliest  boat  that 
came  up  from  New  York  was  to  bear  the  party  to 
Albany,  Saratoga  being  the  first  point  of  their 
destination. 

After  the  closing  of  the  marriage  ceremony  some 
two  or  three  hours  passed  before  the  time  of  de- 
parture came.  The  warm  congratulations  were 
followed  by  a  gay,  festive  scene,  in  which  glad 
young  hearts  had  a  merry-making  time.  How 
beautiful  the  bride  looked !  and  how  proudly  the 
gaze  of  her  newly-installed  husband  turned  ever 
and  ever  toward  her,  move  which  way  she  would 
among  her  maidens,  as  if  she  were  a  magnet  to  his 
eyes.  He  was  standing  in  the  portico  that  looked 
out  upon  the  distant  river,  about  an  hour  after  the 
wedding,  talking  with  one  of  the  bridesmaids,  when 
the  latter,  pointing  to  the  sky,  said,  laughing — 

"  There  comes  your  fate." 

Emerson's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  her 
finger. 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,"  he  replied,  looking  back 
into  the  maiden's  face.  "  What  do  you  see  ?" 

"A  little  white  blemish  on  the  deepening  azure," 
was  answered.  "There  it  lies,  just  over  that  stately 
horse-chestnut,  whose  branches  arch  themselves  into 
the  outline  of  a  great  cathedral  window." 

"A  scarcely  perceptible  cloud?" 


£HE  CLOUD  AND  THE  SIGN. 

"Yes,  no  bigger  than  a  hand ;  and  just  below  it 
is  another." 

"  I  see ;  and  yet  you  still  propound  a  riddle. 
What  has  that  cloud  to  do  with  my  fate  ?" 

"  You  know  the  old  superstition  connected  with 
wedding-days  ?" 

"What?" 

"  That  as  the  aspect  of  the  day  is,  so  will  the 
wedded  life  be." 

"  Ours,  then,  is  full  of  promise.  There  has  been 
no  fairer  day  than  this,"  said  the  young  man. 

"Yet  many  a  day  that  opened  as  bright  and 
cloudless  has  sobbed  itself  away  in  tears." 

"  True ;  and  it  may  be  so  again.  But  I  am  no 
believer  in  signs." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  the  young  lady,  again  laughing. 

The  bride  came  up  at  this  moment  and,  hearing 
the  remark  of  her  young  husband,  said,  as  she  drew 
her  arm  within  his — 

"What  about  signs,  Hartley?" 

"  Miss  Carman  has  just  reminded  me  of  the 
superstition  about  wedding-days,  as  typical  of 
life." 

"Oh  yes,  I  remember,"  said  Irene,  smiling. 
"  If  the  day  opens  clear,  then  becomes  cloudy,  and 
goes  out  in  storm,  there  will  be  happiness  in  the 
beginning,  but  sorrow  at  the  close;  but  if  clouds 
and  rain  herald  its  awakening,  then  pass  over  and 
leave  the  sky  blue  and  sunny,  there  will  be  trouble 
at  first,  but  smiling  peace  as  life  progresses  and  de- 


40  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

clines.  Our  sky  is  bright  as  heart  could  wish." 
And  the  bride  looked  up  into  the  deep  blue  ether. 

Miss  Carman  laid  one  hand  upon  her  arm  and 
with  the  other  pointed  lower  down,  almost  upon 
the  horizon's  edge,  saying,  in  a  tone  of  mock  solem- 
nity— 

"As  I  said  to  Mr.  Emerson,  so  I  now  say  to 
you — There  comes  your  fate." 

"  You  don't  call  that  the  herald  of  an  approach- 
ing storm  ?" 

"  AVeatherwise  people  say,"  answered  the  maiden, 
"that  a  sky  without  a  cloud  is  soon  followed  by 
stormy  weather.  Since  morning  until  now  there 
has  not  a  cloud  been  seen." 

"  Weatherwise  people  and  almanac-makers  speak 
very  oracularly,  but  the  day  of  auguries  and  signs 
is  over,"  replied  Irene. 

"  Philosophy,"  said  Mr.  Emerson,  "  is  beginning 
to  find  reasons  in  the  nature  of  things  for  results 
that  once  seemed  only  accidental,  yet  followed  with 
remarkable  certainty  the  same  phenomena.  It  dis- 
covers a  relation  of  cause  and  effect  where  ignorance 
only  recognizes  some  power  working  in  the  dark.1' 

"  So  you  pass  me  over  to  the  side  of  ignorance !'' 
Irene  spoke  in  a  tone  that  Hartley's  ear  recognized 
too  well.  His  remark  had  touched  her  pride. 

"  Not  by  any  means,"  he  answered  quickly,  eager 
to  do  away  the  impression.  "  Not  by  any  moans," 
he  repeated.  "  The  day  of  mere  auguries,  omens 
and  signs  is  over.  Whatever  natural  phenomena 


THE  CLOUD  AND  THE  SIGN.  4l 

appear  are  dependent  on  natural  causes,  and  men 
of  science  are  beginning  to  study  the  so-called  su- 
perstitions of  farmers  and  seamen,  to  find  out,  if 
possible,  the  philosophical  elucidation.  Already  a 
number  of  curious  results  have  followed  investiga- 
tion in  this  field." 

Irene  leaned  on  his  arm  still,  but  she  did  not 
respond.  A  little  cloud  had  come  up  and  lay  just 
upon  the  verge  of  her  soul's  horizon.  Her  husband 
knew  that  it  was  there;  and  this  knowledge  caused 
a  cloud  to  dim  also  the  clear  azure  of  his  mind. 
There  was  a  singular  correspondence  between  their 
mental  sky  and  the  fair  cerulean  without. 

Fearing  to  pursue  the  theme  on  which  they 
were  conversing,  lest  some  unwitting  words  might 
shadow  still  further  the  mind  of  Irene,  Emerson 
changed  the  subject,  and  was,  to  all  appearance, 
successful  in  dispelling  the  little  cloud. 

The  hour  came,  at  length,  when  the  bridal  party 
must  leave.  After  a  tender,  tearful  parting  with 
her  father,  Irene  turned  her  steps  away  from  ths 
home  of  her  childhood  into  a  new  path,  that  would 
lead  her  out  into  the  world,  where  so  many  thou- 
sands upon  thousands,  who  saw  only  a  way  of 
velvet  softness  before  them,  have  cut  their  tendei 
feet  upon  flinty  rocks,  even  to  the  very  end  of  theii 
tearful  journey.  Tightly  and  long  did  Mr.  De- 
lancy  hold  his  child  to  his  heart,  and  when  his  last 
kiss  was  given  and  his  fervent  "  God  give  you  a 
happy  life,  my  daughter !"  said,  he  gazed  after  her 


12  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

departing  form  with  eyes  from  which  manly  firm- 
ness could  not  hold  back  the  tears. 

No  one  knew  better  than  Mr.  Delancy  the  perils 
that  lay  before  his  daughter.  That  storms  would 
darken  her  sky  and  desolate  her  hear*,  he  had  too 
good  reason  to  fear.  His  hope  for  Ler  lay  beyond 
the  summer-time  of  life,  when,  chastened  by  suffer- 
ing and  subdued  by  experience,  a  tranquil  autumn 
would  crown  her  soul  with  blessings  that  might 
have  been  earlier  enjoyed.  He  was  not  supersti- 
tious, and  yet  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  concern  that 
he  saw  the  white  and  golden  clouds  gathering  like 
enchanted  land  along  the  horizon,  and  piling  them- 
selves up,  one  above  another,  as  if  in  sport,  build- 
ing castles  and  towers  that  soon  dissolved,  changing 
away  into  fantastic  forms,  in  which  the  eye  could 
see  no  meaning ;  and  when,  at  last,  his  ear  caught 
a  far-distant  sound  that  jarred  the  air,  a  sudden 
pain  shot  through  his  heart. 

"  On  any  other  day  but  this  !"  he  sighed  to  him- 
self, turning  from  the  window  at  which  he  \va? 
standing  and  walking  restlessly  the  floor  for  several 
minutes,  lost  in  a  sad,  dreamy  reverie. 

Like  something  instinct  with  life  the  stately 
steamer,  quivering  with  every  stroke  of  her  iron 
heart,  swept  along  the  gleaming  river  on  her 
upward  passage,  bearing  to  their  destination  her 
freight  of  human  souls.  Among  these  was  our 
bridal  party,  which,  as  the  day  was  so  clear  and 
beautiful,  was  gathered  upon  the  upper  deck.  As 


THE  CLOUD  AND  THE  SIGN.  43 

Irene's  eyes  turned  from  the  closing  vision  of  her 
father's  beautiful  home,  where  the  first  cycle  of  her 
life  had  recorded  its  golden  hours,  she  said,  with  a 
sigh,  speaking  to  one  of  her  companions — 

"Farewell,  Ivy  Cliff!  I  shall  return  to  you 
again,  but  not  the  same  being  I  was  when  I  left 
your  pleasant  scenes  this  morning." 

"A  happier  being,  I  trust/'  replied  Miss  Car- 
man, one  of  her  bridemaids. 

Rose  Carman  was  a  young  friend,  residing  in  the 
neighborhood  of  her  father,  to  whom  Irene  was 
tenderly  attached. 

"  Something  here  says  no."  And  Irene,  bending 
toward  Miss  Carman,  pressed  one  of  her  hands 
against  her  bosom. 

"  The  weakness  of  an  hour  like  this,"  answered 
her  friend  with  an  assuring  smile.  "  It  will  pass 
away  like  the  morning  cloud  and  the  early 
dew." 

Mr.  Emerson  noticed  the  shade  upon  the  face 
of  his  bride,  and  drawing  near  to  her,  said,  ten- 
derly-— 

"  I  can  forgive  you  a  sigh  for  the  past,  Irene. 
Ivy  Cliff  is  a  lovely  spot,  and  your  home  has  been 
all  that  a  maiden's  heart  could  desire.  It  would 
be  strange,  indeed,  if  the  chords  that  have  so  long 
bound  you  there  did  not  pull  at  your  heart  in 
parting." 

Irene  did  not  answer,  but  let  her  eyes  turn  back- 
ward with  a  pensive  almost  longing  glance  toward 


44  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

the  spot  where  lay  hidden  among  the  distant  trees 
the  home  of  her  early  years.  A  deep  shadow  had 
suddenly  fallen  upon  her  spirits.  Whence  it  came 
she  knew  not  and  asked  not ;  but  with  the  shadow 
was  a  dim  foreboding  of  evil. 

There  was  tact  and  delicacy  enough  in  the  com- 
panions of  Irene  to  lead  them  to  withdraw  observa- 
tion and  to  withhold  further  remarks  until  she 
could  recover  the  self-possession  she  had  lost.  This 
came  back  in  a  little  while,  when,  with  an  effort, 
she  put  on  the  light,  easy  manner  so  natural  to 
her. 

"  Looking  at  the  signs  ?"  said  one  of  the  party, 
half  an  hour  afterward,  as  she  saw  the  eyes  of 
Irene  ranging  along  the  sky,  where  clouds  were 
now  seen  towering  up  in  steep  masses,  like  distant 
mountains. 

"If  I  were  a  believer  of  signs,"  replied  Irene, 
placing  her  arm  within  that  of  the  maiden  who 
had  addressed  her,  and  drawing  her  partly  aside, 
"  I  might  feel  sober  at  this  portent.  But  I  am 
not.  Still,  sign  or  no  sign,  I  trust  we  are  not 
going  to  have  a  storm.  It  would  greatly  mar  our 
pleasure." 

But  long  ere  the  boat  reached  Albany,  rain  began 
to  fall,  accompanied  by  lightning  and  thunder ; 
and  soon  the  clouds  were  dissolving  in  a  mimic 
deluge.  Hour  after  hour,  the  wind  and  rain  and 
lightning  held  fierce  revelry,  and  not  until  near 
the  completion  of  the  voyage  did  the  clouds  hold 


THE  CLOUD  AND  THE  SIGN.  45 

oack  their  watery  treasures,  and  the  sunbeams 
force  themselves  through  the  storm's  dark  barriers. 
When  the  stars  came  out  that  evening,  studding 
the  heavens  with  light,  there  was  no  obscuring  spot 
on  all  the  o'erarci.ing  tk^. 


CHAPTER  TV. 

UNDER    THE    CLOUD. 

'HE  wedding  party  was  to  spend  a  week  at 
Saratoga,  and  it  was  now  the  third  day  since 
its  arrival.  The  time  had  passed  pleasantly, 
or  wearily,  according  to  the  state  of  mind  or 
social  habits  and  resources  of  the  individual.  The 
bride,  it  was  remarked  by  some  of  the  party,  seemed 
dull;  and  Rose  Carman,  who  knew  her  friend 
better,  perhaps,  than  any  other  individual  in  the 
company,  and  kept  her  under  close  observation, 
was  concerned  to  notice  an  occasional  curtness  of 
manner  toward  her  husband,  that  was  evident!}' 
not  relished.  Something  had  already  transpired 
to  jar  the  chords  so  lately  attuned  to  harmony. 

After  dinner  a  ride  was  proposed  by  one  of  the 
company.  Emerson  responded  favorably,  but 
Irene  was  indiiferent.  He  urged  her,  and  she  gave 
an  evidently  reluctant  consent.  While  the  gentle- 
men went  to  make  arrangement  for  carriages,  the 
ladies  retired  to  their  rooms.  Miss  Carman  ac- 
companied the  bride.  She  had  noticed  her  manner, 
and  felt  slightly  troubled  at  her  state  of  mind, 
knowing,  as  she  did,  her  impulsive  character  and 
blind  self-will  when  excited  by  opposition. 

46 


UNDER   THE  CLOUD.  47 

"I  don't  want  to  ride  to-day!"  exclaimed  Irene, 
throwing  herself  into  a  chair  as  soon  as  she  had 
entered  her  room ;  "  and  Hartley  knows  that  I  do 
not." 

Her  cheeks  burned  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"  If  it  will  give  him  pleasure  to  ride  out,"  said 
Rose,  in  a  gentle  soothing  manner,  "you  cannot  but, 
have  the  same  feeling  in  accompanying  him." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon !"  replied  Irene,  briskly. 
"  If  I  don't  want  to  ride,  no  company  can  make 
the  act  agreeable.  Why  can't  people  learn  to  leave 
others  in  freedom?  If  Hartley  had  shown  the 
same  unwillingness  to  join  this  riding  party  that  I 
manifested,  do  you  think  I  would  have  uttered  a 
second  word  in  favor  of  going?  No.  I  am  pro- 
voked at  his  persistence." 

"  There,  there,  Irene !"  said  Miss  Carman,  draw- 
ing an  arm  tenderly  around  the  neck  of  her  friend ; 
"  don't  trust  such  sentences  on  your  lips.  I  can't 
bear  to  hear  you  talk  so.  It  isn't  my  sweet  friend 
speaking." 

"You  are  a  dear,  good  girl,  Rose,"  replied  Irene, 
smiling  faintly,  "  and  I  only  wish  that  I  had  a 
portion  of  your  calm,  gentle  spirit.  But  I  am  as 
I  am,  and  must  act  out  if  I  act  at  all.  I  must  be 
myself  or  nothing." 

"  You  can  be  as  considerate  of  others  as  of  your- 
self?" said  Rose. 

Irene  looked  at  her  companion  inquiringly. 

"  I  mean,"  added  Rose,  "  that  you  can  exercise 


48  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

the  virtue  of  self-denial  in  order  to  give  pleasure 
to  another — especially  if  that  other  one  be  an 
object  very  dear  to  you.  As  in  the  present  case, 
seeing  that  your  husband  wants  to  join  this  riding 
party,  you  can,  for  his  sake,  lay  aside  your  indiffer- 
ence, and  enter,  with  a  hearty  good-will,  into  the 
proposed  pastime." 

"  And  why  cannot  he,  seeing  that  I  do  not  care 
to  ride,  deny  himself  a  little  for  my  sake,  and  not 
drag  me  out  against  my  will?  Is  all  the  yielding 
and  concession  to  be  on  my  side?  Must  his  will 
rule  in  everything?  I  can  tell  you  what  it  is,  Rose, 
this  will  never  suit  me.  There  will  be  open  war 
between  us  before  the  honeymoon  has  waxed  and 
waned,  if  he  goes  on  as  he  has  begun." 

"  Hush  !  hush,  Irene !"  said  her  friend,  in  a  tone 
of  deprecation.  "  The  lightest  sense  of  wrong  gains 
undue  magnitude  the  moment  we  begin  to  com- 
plain. We  see  almost  anything  to  be  of  greater 
importance  when  from  the  obscurity  of  thought  we 
bring  it  out  into  the  daylight  of  speech." 

"  It  will  be  just  as  I  say,  and  saying  it  will  not 
make  it  any  more  so,"  was  Irene's  almost  sullen 
response  to  this.  "  I  have  my  own  ideas  of  things. 
and  my  own  individuality,  and  neither  of  these  do 
I  mean  to  abandon.  If  Hartley  hasn't  the  good 
sense  to  let  me  have  my  own  way  in  what  concerns 
myself,  I  will  take  my  own  way.  As  to  the  trou- 
bles that  may  come  afterward,  I  do  not  give  them 
any  weight  in  the  argument.  I  would  die  a  mar- 


UNDER   THE  CLOUD.  40 

tyr's  death  rather  than  become  the  passive  creature 
of  another." 

"  My  dear  friend,  why  will  you  talk  so  ?"  Rose 
gpoke  in  a  tone  of  grief. 

"Simply  because  I  am  in  earnest.  From  the 
hour  of  our  marriage  I  have  seen  a  disposition  on 
the  part  of  my  husband  to  assume  control — to  make 
his  will  the  general  law  of  our  actions.  It  has  not 
exhibited  itself  in  things  of  moment,  but  in  trifles, 
showing  that  the  spirit  was  there.  I  say  this  to 
you,  Rose,  because  we  have  been  like  sisters,  and  1 
can  tell  you  of  my  inmost  thoughts.  There  is  a 
cloud  already  in  the  sky,  and  it  threatens  an  ap- 
proaching storm." 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  why  are  you  so  blind,  so  weak, 
so  self-deceived  ?  You  are  putting  forth  yout 
hands  to  drag  down  the  temple  of  happiness.  If 
it  fall,  it  will  crush  you  beneath  a  mass  of  ruins ; 
and  not  you  only,  but  the  one  you  have  so  lately 
pledged  yourself  before  God  and  his  angels  to 
love." 

"And  I  do  love  him  as  deeply  as  ever  man  was 
loved.  Oh  that  he  knew  my  heart !  He  would  not 
then  shatter  his  image  there.  He  would  not  trifle 
with  a  spirit  formed  for  intense,  yielding,  passion- 
ate love,  but  rigid  as  steel  and  cold  as  ice  when  its 
freedom  is  touched.  He  should  have  known  me 
better  before  linking  his  fate  with  mine." 

One  of  her  darker  moods  had  come  upon  Irene, 
and  she  was  beating  about  in  the  blind  obscurity 


50  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

of  passion.  As  she  began  to  give  uttertmce  to 
complaining  thoughts,  new  thoughts  formed  them- 
selves, and  what  was  only  vague  feelings  grew  into 
ideas  of  wrong ;  and  these,  when  once  spoken,  as- 
sumed a  magnitude  unimagined  before.  In  vai  i 
did  her  friend  strive  with  her.  Argument,  remon- 
strance, persuasion,  only  seemed  to  bring  greater 
obscurity  and  to  excite  a  more  bitter  feeling  in  her 
mind.  And  so,  despairing  of  any  good  result,  Rose 
withdrew,  and  left  her  with  her  own  unhappy 
thoughts. 

Not  long  after  Miss  Carman  retired,  Emerson 
came  in.  At  the  sound  of  his  approaching  foot- 
steps, Irene  had,  with  a  strong  effort,  composed 
herself  and  swept  back  the  deeper  shadows  from 
her  face. 

"  Not  ready  yet  ?"  he  said,  in  a  pleasant,  half- 
chiding  way.  "  The  carriages  will  be  at  the  door 
in  ten  minutes." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  ride  out,"  returned  Irene,  in 
a  quiet,  seemingly  indifferent  tone  of  voice.  Hart- 
ley mistook  her  manner  for  sport,  and  answered 
pleasantly — 

"  Oh  yes  you  are,  my  little  lady." 

"  No,  I  am  not."  There  was  no  misapprehension 
now. 

"  Not  going  to  ride  out  ?"  Hartley's  brows  con  • 
tracted. 

"  No ;  I  am  not  going  to  ride  out  to-day."  Euch 
word  was  distinctly  spoken. 


UNDER   THE  CLOUD.  51 

u  I  don't  understand  you,  Irene." 

"  Are  not  my  words  plain  enough  ?J> 

"Yes,  they  are  too  plain — so  plain  ab  to  make 
them  involve  a  mystery.  What  do  you  mean  by 
this  sudden  change  of  purpose  ?" 

"  I  don't  wish  to  ride  out,"  said  Irene,  with  as- 
sumed calmness  of  manner;  "and  that  being  so, 
may  I  not  have  my  will  in  the  case  ?" 

"No—" 

A  red  spot  burned  on  Irene's  cheeks  and  her 
eyes  flashed. 

"  No,"  repeated  her  husband ;  "  not  after  you 
have  given  up  that  will  to  another." 

"  To  you !"  Irene  started  to  her  feet  in  instant 
passion.  "  And  so  I  am  to  be  nobody,  and  you  the 
lord  and  master.  My  will  is  to  be  nothing,  and 
yours  the  law  of  my  life."  Her  lip  curled  in  con- 
temptuous anger. 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  said  Hartley  Emerson, 
speaking  as  calmly  as  was  possible  in  this  sudden 
emergency.  "  I  did  not  refer  specially  to  myself, 
but  to  all  of  our  party,  to  whom  you  had  given  up 
your  will  in  a  promise  to  ride  out  with  them,  and 
to  whom,  therefore,  you  were  bound." 

"An  easy  evasion,"  retorted  the  excited  bride, 
who  had  lost  her  mental  equipoise. 

"  Irene,"  the  young  man  spoke  sternly,  "  are 
those  the  right  words  for  your  husband  ?  An  easy 
evasion  !'* 

"  I  have  said  them." 


62  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"And  you  must  unsay  them." 

Both  had  passed  under  the  cloud  which  prida 
and  passion  had  raised. 

"  Must !  I  thought  you  knew  me  better,  Hartley." 
Irene  grew  suddenly  calm. 

"  If  there  is  to  be  love  between  us,  all  barriers 
must  be  removed." 

"Don't  say  must  to  me,  sir!  I  will  not  endure 
the  word." 

Hartley  turned  from  her  and  walked  the  floor 
with  rapid  steps,  angry,  grieved  and  in  doubt  as 
to  what  it  were  best  for  him  to  do.  The  storm  had 
broken  on  him  without  a  sign  of  warning,  and  he 
was  wholly  unprepared  to  meet  it. 

"  Irene,"  he  said,  at  length,  pausing  before  her, 
"  this  conduct  on  your  part  is  wholly  inexplicable. 
I  cannot  understand  its  meaning.  Will  you  ex- 
plain yourself?" 

"  Certainly.  I  am  always  ready  to  give  a  reason 
for  my  conduct,"  she  replied,  with  cold  dignity. 

"Say  on,  then."  Emerson  spoke  with  equal 
coldness  of  manner. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  ride  out,  and  said  so  in  the 
beginning.  That  ought  to  have  been  enough  for 
you.  But  no — my  wishes  were  nothing;  your  will 
must  be  law." 

"  And  that  is  all !  the  head  and  front  of  my 
offending !"  said  Emerson,  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  It  isn't  so  much  the  thing  itself  that  I  object 
to,  as  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  done,"  said  Irene. 


UNDER  THE  CLOUD.  53 

"  i  spirit  of  overbearing  self-will !"  said  Em- 
erson. 

"Y'_s,  if  you  choose.  That  is  what  my  soul 
revolts  against.  I  gave  you  my  heart  and  my 
hand — my  love  and  my  confidence — not  my  free- 
dom. The  last  is  a  part  of  my  being,  and  I  will 
maintain  it  while  I  have  life." 

"  Perverse  girl !  What  insane  spirit  has  got 
possession  of  your  mind?"  exclaimed  Emerson, 
chafed  beyond  endurance. 

"  Say  on,"  retorted  Irene ;  "  I  am  prepared  for 
this.  I  have  seen,  from  the  hour  of  our  marriage, 
that  a  time  of  strife  would  come ;  that  yonr  will 
would  seek  to  make  itself  ruler,  and  that  I  would 
not  submit.  I  did  not  expect  the  issue  to  come  so 
soon.  I  trusted  in  your  love  to  spare  me,  at  least, 
until  I  could  be  hidden  from  general  observation 
when  I  turned  myself  upon  you  and  said,  Thus  far 
thou  mayest  go,  but  no  farther.  But,  come  the 
struggle  early  or  late — now  or  in  twenty  years — I 
am  prepared." 

There  came  at  this  IE  Dment  a  rap  at  their  door. 
Mr.  Emerson  opened  it. 

"  Carriage  is  waiting,"  said  a  servant. 

"  Say  that  we  will  be  down  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  door  closed. 

"  Come,  Irene,"  said  Mr.  Emerson. 

"  You  spoke  very  confidently  to  the  servant,  and 
said  we  would  be  down  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  There,  there,  Irene !    Let  this  folly  die ;  it  has 


64  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

lived  long  enough.  Come  !  Make  yourself  ready 
with  all  speed — our  party  is  delayed  by  this  pro- 
longed absence." 

"  You  think  me  trifling,  and  treat  me  as  if  I 
were  a  captious  child,"  said  Irene,  with  chilling 
calmness;  "but  I  am  neither."  , 

"Then  you  will  not  go?" 

"  I  will  not  go."  She  said  the  words  slowly  and 
deliberately,  and  as  she  spoke  looked  her  husband 
steadily  in  the  face.  She  was  in  earnest,  and  he 
felt  that  further  remonstrance  would  be  in  vain. 

"  You  will  repent  of  this,"  he  replied,  with 
enough  of  menace  in  his  voice  to  convey  to  her 
mind  a  great  deal  more  than  was  in  his  thoughts. 
And  he  turned  from  her  and  left  the  room.  Going 
down  stairs,  he  found  the  riding-party  waiting  for 
their  appearance. 

"  Where  is  Irene  ?"  was  asked  by  one  and  an- 
other, on  seeing  him  alone. 

"  She  does  not  care  to  ride  out  this  afternoon, 
and  so  I  have  excused  her,"  he  replied.  Miss  Car- 
man looked  at  him  narrowly,  and  saw  that  there 
was  a  shade  of  trouble  on  his  countenance,  which 
he  could  not  wholly  conceal.  She  would  have  re- 
mained behind  with  Irene,  but  that  would  have 
disappointed  the  friend  who  was  to  be  her  com- 
panion in  the  drive. 

As  the  party  was  in  couples,  and  as  Mr.  Emer- 
son had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  without  his  young 
wife,  he  had  to  ride  alone.  The  absence  of  Irene 


UXDER  THE  CLOUD.  55 

was  felt  as  a  drawback  to  the  pleasure  of  all  the 
company.  Miss  Carman,  who  understood  the  real 
cause  of  Irene's  refusal  to  ride,  was  so  much  trou- 
bled in  her  mind  that  she  sat  almost  silent  during 
the  two  hours  they  were  out.  Mr.  Emerson  left 
the  parry  after  they  had  been  out  for  an  hour,  and 
returned  to  the  hotel.  His  excitement  had  cooled 
off,  and  ne  began .  to  feel  regret  at  the  unl>ending 
way  in  wmch  he  had  met  his  bride's  unhappy  mood. 
"  Her  over-sensitive  mind  has  taken  up  a  wrong 
impression/'  he  said,  as  he  talked  with  himself; 
"  and,  instead  of  saying  or  doing  anything  to  in- 
crease that  impression,  I  should,  by  word  and  act 
of  kindness,  have  done  all  in  my  power  for  its 
removal.  Two  wrongs  never  make  a  right.  Pas- 
sion met  by  passion  results  not  in  peace.  I  should 
have  soothed  and  yielded,  and  so  won  her  back  to 
reason.  As  a  man,  I  ought  to  possess  a  cooler  and 
more  rationally  balanced  mind.  She  is  a  being  of 
feeling  and  impulse, — loving,  ardent,  proud,  sensi- 
tive and  strong-willed.  Knowing  this,  it  was 
madness  in  me  to  chafe  instead  of  soothing  her; 
to  oppose,  when  gentle  concession  would  have  torn 
from  her  eyes  an  illusive  veil.  Oh  that  I  could 
learn  wisdom  in  time !  I  was  in  no  ignorance  as 
to  her  peculiar  character.  I  knew  her  faults  and 
her  weaknesses,  as  well  as  her  nobler  qualities;  and 
it  was  for  me  to  stimulate  the  one  and  bear  with 
the  others.  Duty,  love,  honor,  humanity,  all 
pointed  to  this." 


66  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

The  longer  Mr.  Emerson's  thoughts  ran  in  Ihi* 
direction,  the  deeper  grew  his  feeling  of  self-con^ 
demnation,  and  the  more  tenderly  yearned  his  heart 
toward  the  young  creature  he  had  left  alone  with 
the  enemies  of  their  peace  nestling  in  her  bosom 
and  filling  it  with  passion  and  pain.  After  sepa- 
rating himself  from  his  party,  he  drove  back  to- 
ward the  hotel  at  a  speed  that  soon  put  his  horse* 
into  a  foam. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  BURSTIJfG  OF  THE  STORM. 

ll*fR.  DELANCY  was  sitting  in  his  library  on 
the  afternoon  of  the.  fourth  day  since  the 
wedding-party  left  Ivy  Cliff,  when  the  en- 
trance of  some  one  caused  him  to  turn  toward 
the  door. 

"  Irene !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  anxiety  and 
alarm,  as  he  started  to  his  feet ;  for  his  daughter 
stood  before  him.  Her  face  was  pale,  her  eyes 
fixed  and  sad,  her  dress  in  disorder. 

"  Irene,  in  Heaven's  name,  what  has  happened?" 

"The  worst,"  she  answered,  in  a  low,  hoarse 
voice,  not  moving  from  the  spot  where  she  first 
stood  still. 

"  Speak  plainly,  my  child.  I  cannot  bear  sus- 
pense." 

"  I  have  left  my  husband  and  returned  to  you !" 
was  the  firmly  uttered  reply. 

"  Oh,  folly !  oh,  madness  !  What  evil  counselor 
has  prevailed  with  you,  my  unhappy  child  ?"  said 
Mr.  Delancy,  in  a  voice  of  anguish. 

"  I  have  counseled  with  no  one  but  myself." 

"  Never  a  wise  counselor — never  a  wise  coun- 

67 


58  AFTER  THE  STOEM. 

selor !  Bui  why,  why  have  you  taken  this  despe- 
rate step?" 

"  In  self-protection,"  replied  Irene. 

"  Sit  down,  my  child.  There !"  and  he  led  her 
to  a  seat.  "  Now  let  me  remove  your  bonnet  and 
shawl.  How  wretched  you  look,  poor,  misguided 
one !  I  could  have  laid  you  in  the  grave  with  less 
agony  than  I  feel  hi  seeing  you  thus." 

Her  heart  was  touched  at  this,  and  tears  fell 
over  her  face.  In  the  selfishness  of  her  own 
sternly-borne  trouble,  she  had  forgotten  the  sorrow 
she  was  bringing  to  her  father's  heart. 

"  Poor  child  !  poor  child  !"  sobbed  the  old  man, 
as  he  sat  down  beside  Irene  and  drew  her  head 
against  his  breast.  And  so  both  wept  together 
for  a  time.  After  they  had  grown  calm,  Mr.  De- 
lancy  said — 

"  Tell  me,  Irene,  without  disguise  of  any  kind, 
the  meaning  of  this  step  which  you  have  so  hastily 
taken.  Let  me  have  the  beginning,  progress  and 
consummation  of  the  sad  misunderstanding:1' 

While  yet  under  the  government  of  blind  pas- 
sion, ere  her  husband  returned  from  the  drive  which 
Irene  had  refused  to  take  with  him,  she  had,  acting 
from  a  sudden  suggestion  that  came  to  her  mind, 
left  her  room  and,  taking  the  cars,  passed  down  to 
Albany,  where  she  remained  until  morning  at  one 
of  the  hotels.  In  silence  and  loneliness  she  had, 
during  the  almost  sleepless  night  that  followed, 
ample  time  for  reflection  and  repentance.  And 


THE  BURSTING   OF  THE  STORM.  59 

both  came,  with  convictions  of  error  and  doep 
regret  for  the  unwise,  almost  disgraceful  step  she 
had  taken,  involving  not  only  suffering,  but  hu- 
miliating exposure  of  herself  and  husband.  But 
it  was  felt  to  be  too  late  now  to  look  back.  1'ride 
would  have  laid  upon  her  a  positive  interdiction, 
if  other  considerations  had  not  come  in  to  push  the 
question  of  return  aside. 

In  the  morning,  without  partaking  of  food,  Irene 
left  in  the  New  York  boat,  and  passed  down  the 
river  toward  the  home  from  which  she  had  gone 
forth,  only  a  few  days  before,  a  happy  bride — 
returning  with  the  cup,  then  full  of  the  sw^eet  wine 
of  life,  now  brimming  with  the  bitterest  potion  that 
had  ever  touched  her  lips. 

And  so  she  had  come  back  to  her  father's  house. 
In  all  the  hours  of  mental  anguish  which  had 
passed  since  her  departure  from  Saratoga,  there 
had  been  an  accusing  spirit  at  her  ear,  and,  resist 
as  she  would,  self-condemnation  prevailed  over 
attempted  self-justification.  The  cause  of  this  un- 
happy rupture  was  so  slight,  the  first  provocation  so 
insignificant,  that  she  felt  the  difficulty  of  making 
out  her  case  before  her  father.  As  to  the  world, 
pride  counseled  silence. 

With  but  little  concealment  or  extenuation  of 
her  own  conduct,  Irene  told  the  story  of  her  dis- 
agreement with  Hartley. 

"  And  that  was  all !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Delancey, 
iu  amazement,  when  she  ended  her  narrative. 


60  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"All,  but  enough  1"  she  answered,  with  a  resolute 
manner. 

Mr.  Delancy  arose  and  walked  the  floor  in  silence 
for  more  than  ten  minutes,  during  which  time  Irene 
neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

"  Oh,  misery !"  ejaculated  the  father,  at  length, 
lifting  his  hands  above  his  head  and  then  bringing 
them  down  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

Irene  started  up  and  moved  to  his  side. 

"  Dear  father !"  She  spoke  tenderly,  laying  her 
hands  upon  him ;  but  he  pushed  her  away,  saying — 

"  Wretched  girl  I  you  have  laid  upon  my  old 
head  a  burden  of  disgrace  and  wretchedness  that 
you  have  no  power  to  remove." 

"Father!  father!"  She  clung  to  him,  but  he 
pushed  her  away.  His  manner  was  like  that  of 
one  suddenly  bereft  of  reason.  She  clung  still,  but 
he  resolutely  tore  himself  from  her,  when  she  fell 
exhausted  and  fainting  upon  the  floor. 

Alarm  now  took  the  place  of  other  emotions,  and 
Mr.  Delancy  was  endeavoring  to  lift  the  insensible 
body,  when  a  quick,  heavy  tread  in  the  portico 
caused  him  to  look  up,  just  as  Hartley  Emerson 
pushed  open  one  of  the  French  windows  and  en- 
tered the  library.  He  had  a  wild,  anxious,  half- 
frightened  look.  Mr.  Delancy  let  the  body  fall 
from  his  almost  paralyzed  arms  and  staggered  to  a 
chair,  while  Emerson  sprung  forward,  catching  up 
the  fainting  form  of  his  young  bride  and  bearing  it 
to  a  sofa. 


TEE  BURSTING   OF  THE  STORM.          61 

"  How  long  has  she  been  in  this  way  ?"  asked 
the  young  man,  in  a  tone  of  agitation. 

"She  fainted  this  moment,"  replied  Mr.  De- 
lancy. 

"  How  long  has  she  been  here  ?" 

"  Not  half  an  hour,"  was  answered ;  and  as  Mr. 
Delancy  spoke  he  reached  for  the  bell  and  jerked 
it  two  or  three  times  violently.  The  waiter,  start- 
led by  the  loud,  prolonged  sound,  came  hurripdly 
to  the  library. 

"  Send  Margaret  here,  and  then  get  a  horse  and 
ride  over  swiftly  for  Dr.  Edmundson.  Tell  him  to 
come  immediately." 

The  waiter  stood  for  a  moment  or  two,  looking 
in  a  half-terrified  way  upon  the  white,  deathly  face 
of  Irene,  and  then  fled  from  the  apartment.  No 
grass  grew  beneath  his  horse's  feet  as  he  held  him 
to  his  utmost  speed  for  the  distance  of  two  miles, 
which  lay  between  Ivy  Cliff  and  the  doctor's  resi- 
dence. 

Margaret,  startled  by  the  hurried,  half-incoherent 
summons  of  the  waiter,  came  flying  into  the  library. 
The  moment  her  eyes  rested  upon  Irene,  who  still 
lay  insensible  upon  the  sofa,  she  screamed  out,  in 
terror — 

"Oh,  she's  dead!  she's  dead!"  and  stood  still 
as  if  suddenly  paralyzed ;  then,  wringing  her  hands, 
she  broke  out  in  a  wild,  sobbing  tone — 

"  My  poor,  poor  child  !    Oh,  she  is  dead,  dead !" 

"  No,  Margaret,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  as  calmly  as 


C2  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

he  could  sj/eak,  "  she  is  not  dead ;  it  is  only  a  fa^ 
ing  fit.  Bring  some  water,  quickly." 

Water  was  brought  and  dashed  into  the  face  of 
Irene ;  but  there  came  no  sign  of  returning  con- 
sciousness. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  take  her  up  to  her  room, 
Mr.  Emerson  ?"  suggested  Margaret. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  and,  lifting  the  insensible 
form  of  his  bride  in  his  arms,  the  unhappy  man 
bore  her  to  her  chamber.  Then,  sitting  down  be- 
side the  bed  upon  which  he  had  placed  her,  he 
kissed  her  pale  cheeks  and,  laying  his  face  to  hers, 
sobbed  and  moaned,  in  the  abandonment  of  his 
grief,  like  a  distressed  child  weeping  in  despair  for 
some  lost  treasure. 

"  Come,"  said  Margaret,  who  was  an  old  family 
domestic,  drawing  Hartley  from  the  bedside, 
"leave  her  alone  with  me  for  a  little  while." 

And  the  husband  and  father  retired  from  the 
room.  When  they  returned,  at  the  call  of  Marga- 
ret, they  found  Irene  in  bed,  her  white,  unconscious 
face  scarcely  relieved  against  the  snowy  pillow  on 
which  her  head  was  resting. 

"  She  is  alive,"  said  Margaret,  in  a  low  but  ex- 
cited voice ;  "  I  can  feel  her  heart  beat." 

"  Thank  God !"  ejaculated  Emerson,  bending 
again  over  the  motionless  form  and  gazing  anx- 
iously down  upon  the  face  of  his  bride. 

But  there  was  no  utterance  of  thankfulness  in 
the  heart  of  Mr.  Delancy.  For  her  to  come  bach 


THE  BURSTING   OF  THE  STOR^f.          63 

again  to  conscious  life  was,  he  felt,  but  a  return  to 
wretchedness.  If  the  true  prayer  of  his  heart 
could  have  found  voice,  it  would  have  been  for 
death,  and  not  for  life. 

In  silence,  fear  and  suspense  they  waited  an  hour 
before  the  doctor  arrived.  Little  change  in  Irene 
took  place  during  that  time,  except  that  her  respi- 
ration became  clearer  and  the  pulsations  of  her 
heart  distinct  and  regular.  The  application  of 
warm  stimulants  was  immediately  ordered,  and 
their  good  effects  soon  became  apparent. 

"All  will  come  right  in  a  little  while,"  said  Dr. 
Edmundson,  encouragingly.  "  It  seems  t.)  be  only 
a  fainting  fit  of  unusual  length." 

Hartley  drew  Mr.  Delancy  aside. 

"  It  will  be  best  that  I  should  be  alon">  *ith  her 
when  she  recovers,"  said  he. 

"  You  may  be  right  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Delancy, 
after  a  moment's  reflection. 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  am,"  was  returned. 

"  You  think  she  will  recover  soon  ?"  said  Mr. 
Delancy,  approaching  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  at  any  moment.  She  is  breathing  deeper, 
and  her  heart  beats  with  a  fuller  impulse." 

"  Let  us  retire,  then ;"  and  he  drew  the  doctor 
from  the  apartment.  Pausing  at  the  door,  he  called 
to  Margaret  in  a  half  whisper.  She  went  out  also, 
Emerson  alone  remaining. 

Taking  his  place  by  the  bedside,  he  waited,  in 
trembling  anxiety,  for  the  moment  when  her  eyes 


64  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

should  open  and  recognize  him.  At  lost  there 
came  a  quivering  of  the  eyelids  and  a  motion  about 
the  sleeper's  lips.  Emerson  bent  over  and  took 
one  of  her  hands  in  his. 

"  Irene  I"  He  called  her  name  in  a  voice  of  the 
tenderest  affection.  The  sound  seemed  to  pene- 
trate to  the  region  of  consciousness,  for  her  lipa 
moved  with  a  murmur  of  inarticulate  words.  He 
kissed  her,  and  said  again — 

"Irene!" 

There  was  a  sudden  lighting  up  of  her  face. 

"  Irene,  love !  darling !"  The  voice  of  Emerson 
tvas  burdened  with  tenderness. 

"  Oh,  Hartley !"  she  exclaimed,  opening  her  eyes 
and  looking  with  a  kind  of  glad  bewilderment  into 
his  face.  Then,  half  rising  and  drawing  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  she  hid  her  face  on  his  bosom, 
murmuring — 

"  Thank  God  that  it  is  only  a  dream !" 

"  Yes,  thank  God  !"  replied  her  husband,  as  he 
kissed  her  in  a  kind  of  wild  fervor;  "and  may 
such  dreams  never  come  again." 

She  lay  very  still  for  some  moments.  Thought 
and  memory  were  beginning  to  act  feebly.  The 
response  of  her  husband  had  in  it  something  that 
set  her  to  questioning.  But  there  was  one  thing 
that  made  her  feel  happy :  the  sound  of  his  loving 
voice  was  in  her  ears ;  and  all  the  while  she  felt 
his  hand  moving,  with  a  soft,  caressing  touch,  over 
her  cheek  and  temple. 


THE  BURSTING   OF  THE  STORM.  65 

"  i)ear  Irene !"  he  murmured  in  her  ears ;  and 
then  her  hand  tightened  on  his. 

And  thus  she  remained  until  conscious  life  re- 
gained its  full  activity.  Then  the  trial  came. 

Suddenly  lifting  herself  from  the  bosom  of  her 
husband,  Irene  gave  a  hurried  glance  around  the* 
well-known  chamber,  then  turned  and  looked  with 
a  strange,  fearful  questioning  glance  into  his  face : 

"  Where  am  I  ?     What  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  It  means,"  replied  Emerson,  "  that  the  dream, 
thank  God  !  is  over,  and  that  my  dear  wife  is  awake 
again." 

He  placed  his  arms  again  around  her  and  drew 
her  to  his  heart,  almost  smothering  her,  as  he  did 
so,  with  kisses. 

She  lay  passive  for  a  little  while ;  then,  disen- 
gaging herself,  she  said,  faintly — 

"  I  feel  weak  and  bewildered ;  let  me  lie  down." 

She  closed  her  eyes  as  Emerson  placed  her  back 
on  the  pillow,  a  sad  expression  covering  her  still 
pallid  face.  Sitting  down  beside  her,  he  took  her 
hand  and  held  it  with  a  firm  pressure.  She  did 
not  attempt  to  withdraw  it.  He  kissed  her,  and  a 
warmer  flush  came  over  her  face. 

"  Dear  Irene !"  His  hand  pressed  tightly  upon 
hers,  and  she  returned  the  pressure. 

"  Shall  I  call  your  father  ?  He  is  very  anxious 
about  you." 

"  Not  yet."  And  she  caught  slightly  her  breath, 
as  if  feeling  were  growing  too  strong  for  her. 


66  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Let  it  be  as  a  dream,  Hartley."  Irene  lifted 
herself  up  and  looked  calmly,  but  with  a  very  sad 
expression  on  her  countenance,  into  her  husband's 
face. 

"  Between  us  two,  Irene,  even  as  a  dream  from 
which  both  have  awakened,"  he  replied. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  sunk  back  upon  the 
pillow. 

Mr.  Emerson  then  went  to  the  door  and  spoke 
to  Mr.  Delancy.  On  a  brief  consultation  it  was 
thought  best  for  Dr.  Edmundson  not  to  see  her 
again.  A  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
called  in  might  give  occasion  for  more  disturbing 
thoughts  than  were  already  pressing  upon  her  mind. 
And  so,  after  giving  some  general  directions  as  to 
the  avoidance  of  all  things  likely  to  excite  her 
mind  unpleasantly,  the  doctor  withdrew. 

Mr.  Delancy  saw  his  daughter  alone.  The  inter- 
view was  long  and  earnest.  On  his  part  was  the 
fullest  disapproval  of  her  conduct  and  the  most 
solemnly  spoken  admonitions  and  warnings.  She 
confessed  her  error,  without  any  attempt  at  excuse 
or  palliation,  and  promised  a  wiser  conduct  in  the 
future. 

"  There  is  not  one  husband  in  five,"  said  the 
father,  "who  would  have  forgiven  an  act  like  this, 
placing  him,  as  it  does,  in  such  a  false  and  humili- 
ating position  before  the  world.  He  loves  you  with 
too  deep  and  true  a  love,  my  child,  for  girlish  tri- 
fling like  this.  And  let  me  warn  you  of  the  danger 


THE  BURSTING   OF  THE  STORM.  67 

you  incur  of  turning  against  you  the  spirit  of  such 
a  man.  I  have  studied  his  character  closely,  and  I 
see  in  it  an  element  of  firmness  that,  if  it  once  sets 
itself,  will  be  as  inflexible  as  iron.  If  you  repeat 
acts  of  this  kind,  the  day  must  come  when  forbear- 
ance will  cease ;  and  then,  in  turning  from  you,  it 
will  be  never  to  turn  back  again  Harden  him 
against  you  once,  and  it  will  be  for  all  time." 

Irene  wept  bitterly  at  this  strong  representation, 
and  trembled  at  thought  of  the  danger  she  had 
escaped. 

To  her  husband,  when  she  was  alone  with  him 
again,  she  confessed  her  fault,  and  prayed  him  to 
let  the  memory  of  it  pass  from  his  mind  for  ever. 
On  his  part  was  the  fullest  denial  of  any  purpose 
whatever,  in  the  late  misunderstanding,  to  bend  her 
to  his  will.  He  assured  her  that  if  he  had  dreamed 
of  any  serious  objection  on  her  part  to  the  ride,  he 
would  not  have  urged  it  for  a  moment.  It  involved 
no  promised  pleasure  to  him  apart  from  pleasure  to 
her ;  and  it  was  because  he  believed  that  she  would 
enjoy  the  drive  that  he  had  urged  her  to  make  one 
of  the  party. 

All  this  was  well,  as  far  as  it  could  go.  But 
repentance  and  mutual  forgiveness  did  not  restore 
everything  to  the  old  condition — did  not  obliterate 
that  one  sad  page  in  their  history,  and  leave  them 
free  to  make  a  new  and  better  record.  If  the  folly 
had  been  in  private,  the  effort  at  forgiving  and  for- 
getting would  have  been  attended  with  fewer  an- 


68  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

noying  considerations.  But  it  was  committed  in 
public,  and  under  circumstances  calculated  to  attract 
attention  and  occasion  invidious  remark.  And  then, 
how  were  they  to  meet  the  different  members  of  the 
wedding-party,  which  they  had  so  suddenly  thrown 
into  consternation  ? 

On  the  next  day  the  anxious  members  of  this 
party  made  their  appearance  at  Ivy  Cliff,  not  hav-« 
ing,  up  to  this  time,  received  any  intelligence  of  the 
fugitive  bride.  Mr.  Delancy  did  not  attempt  to 
excuse  to  them  the  unjustifiable  conduct  of  his 
daughter,  beyond  the  admission  that  she  must 
have  been  temporarily  deranged.  Something  was 
Baid  about  resuming  the  bridal  tour,  but  Mr.  De- 
lancy said,  "  No ;  the  quiet  of  Ivy  Cliff  will  yield 
more  pleasure  than  the  excitement  of  travel." 

And  all  felt  this  to  be  true. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

AFTER  THE  STORM. 

Ci  FTER  the  storm.  Alas !  that  there  should 
[I  be  a  wreck-strewn  shore  so  soon  !  That  within 
JJ\>  three  days  of  the  bridal  morning  a  tempest 
•  should  have  raged,  scattering  on  the  wind 
sweet  blossoms  which  had  just  opened  to  the  sun- 
shine, tearing  away  the  clinging  vines  of  love,  and 
leaving  marks  of  desolation  which  no  dew  and  sun- 
shine could  ever  obliterate ! 

It  was  not  a  blessed  honeymoon  to  them.  How 
could  it  be,  after  what  had  passed?  Both  were 
hurt  and  mortified;  and  while  there  was  mutual 
forgiveness  and  great  tenderness  and  fond  conces- 
sions, one  toward  the  other,  there  was  a  sober, 
thoughful  state  of  mind,  not  favorable  to  hap- 
piness. 

Mr.  Delancy  hoped  the  lesson — a  very  severe 
one — might  prove  the  guarantee  of  future  peace. 
It  had,  without  doubt,  awakened  Irene's  mind  to 
sober  thoughts  and  closer  self-examination  than 
usual.  She  was  convicted  in  her  own  heart  of 
folly,  the  memory  of  which  could  never  return  to 
her  without  a  sense  of  pain. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  from  the  day  of  their 


70  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

marriage,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emerson  went  down  to  the 
city  to  take  possession  of  their  new  home.  On  the 
eve  of  their  departure  from  Ivy  Cliff,  Mr.  Delancy 
had  a  long  conference  with  his  daughter,  in  which 
he  conjured  her,  by  all  things  sacred,  to  guard  her- 
self against  that  blindness  of  passion  which  had 
already  produced  such  unhappy  consequences.  She 
repeated,  with  many  tears,  her  good  resolutions  for 
the  future,  and  showed  great  sorrow  and  contrition 
for  the  past. 

"  It  may  come  out  right,"  said  the  old  man  to 
himself,  as  he  sat  alone,  with  a  pressure  of  fore- 
boding on  his  mind,  looking  into  the  dim  future,  on 
the  day  of  their  departure  for  New  York.  His 
only  and  beloved  child  had  gone  forth  to  return  no 
more,  unless  in  sorrow  or  wretchedness.  "  It  may 
come  out  right,  but  my  heart  has  sad  misgivings." 

There  was  a  troubled  suspense  of  nearly  a  week, 
when  the  first  letter  came  from  Irene  to  her  father. 
He  broke  the  seal  with  unsteady  hands,  fearing  to 
let  his  eyes  fall  upon  the  opening  page. 

"My  dear,  dear  father!  I  am  a  happy  young 
wife." 

"  Thank  God !"  exclaimed  the  old  man  aloud, 
letting  the  hand  fall  that  held  Irene's  letter.  It 
was  some  moments  before  he  could  read  farther ; 
then  he  drank  in,  with  almost  childish  eagerness, 
every  sentence  of  the  long  letter. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  may  come  out  right,"  said  Mr.  De- 
lancy ;  "  it  may  come  out  right."  He  uttered  the 


AFTER   THE  STORM.  71 

words,  so  often  on  his  lips,  with  more  confidence 
than  usual.  The  letter  strongly  urged  him  to  make 
her  a  visit,  if  it  was  only  for  a  day  or  two. 

"  You  know,  dear  father,"  she  wrote,  "  that  most 
of  your  time  is  to  be  spent  with  us — all  your  win- 
ters, certainly ;  and  we  want  you  to  begin  the  new 
arrangement  as  soon  as  possible." 

Mr.  Delancy  sighed  over  the  passage.  He  had 
not  set  his  heart  on  this  arrangement.  It  might 
have  been  a  pleasant  thing  for  him  to  anticipate ; 
but  there  was  not  the  hopeful  basis  for  anticipation 
which  a  mind  like  his  required. 

Not  love  alone  prompted  Mr.  Delancy  to  make 
an  early  visit  to  New  York ;  a  feeling  of  anxiety 
to  know  how  it  really  was  with  the  young  couple 
acted  quite  as  strongly  in  the  line  of  incentive. 
And  so  he  went  down  to  the  city  and  passed  nearly 
a  week  there.  Both  Irene  and  her  husband  knew 
that  he  was  observing  them  closely  all  the  while, 
and  a  consciousness  of  this  put  them  under  some 
constraint.  Everything  passed  harmoniously,  and 
Mr.  Delancy  returned  with  the  half-hopeful,  half- 
doubting  words  on  his  lips,  so  often  and  often 
repeated — 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  may  come  out  right." 

But  it  was  not  coming  out  altogether  right. 
Even  while  the  old  man  was  under  her  roof,  Irene 
had  a  brief  season  of  self-willed  reaction  against 
her  husband,  consequent  on  some  unguarded  word 
or  act,  which  she  felt  to  be  a  trespass  on  her  free- 


f2  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

dom.  To  save  appearances  while  Mr.  Delancy  was 
with  them,  Hartley  yielded  and  tendered  concilia- 
tion, all  the  while  that  his  spirit  chafed  sorely. 

The  departure  of  Mr.  Delancy  for  Ivy  Cliff  was 
the  signal  for  both  Irene  and  her  husband  to  lay 
aside  a  portion  of  the  restraint  which  each  had 
borne  with  a  certain  restlessness  that  longed  for  a 
time  of  freedom.  On,  the  very  day  that  he  left 
Irene  showed  so  much  that  seemed  to  her  husband 
like  perverseness  of  will  that  he  was  seriously 
offended,  and  spoke  an  unguarded  word  that  was 
as  fire  to  stubble — a  word  that  was  repented  of  as 
soon  as  spoken,  but  which  pride  would  not  permit 
him  to  recall.  It  took  nearly  a  week  of  suffering 
to  discipline  the  mind  of  Mr.  Emerson  to  the  point 
of  conciliation.  On  the  part  of  Irene  there  was 
not  the  thought  of  yielding.  Her  will,  supported 
by  pride,  was  as  rigid  as  iron.  Reason  had  no 
power  over  her.  She  felt,  rather  than  thought. 

Thus  far,  both  as  lover  and  husband,  in  all  their 
alienations,  Hartley  had  been  the  first  to  yield;  and 
it  was  so  now.  He  was  strong-willed  and  persist- 
ent; but  cooler  reason  helped  him  back  into  the 
right  way,  and  he  had,  thus  far,  found  it  quicker 
than  Irene.  Not  that  he  suffered  less  or  repented 
sooner.  Irene's  suffering  was  far  deeper,  but  she 
was  blinder  and  more  self-determined. 

Again  the  sun  of  peace  smiled  down  upon  them, 
but,  as  before,  on  something  shorn  of  its  strength 
or  beauty. 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  72 

"  I  will  be  more  guarded,"  said  Hartley  to  him- 
self. "  Knowing  her  weakness,  why  should  I  not 
protect  her  against  everything  that  wounds  her  sen- 
sitive nature  ?  Love  concedes,  is  long  suffering  and 
full  of  patience.  I  love  Irene — words  cannot  tell 
how  deeply.  Then  why  should  I  not,  for  her  sake, 
bear  and  forbear  ?  Why  should  I  think  of  myself 
and  grow  fretted  because  she  does  not  yield  as  read- 
ily as  I  could  desire  to  my  wishes  ?" 

So  Emerson  talked  with  himself  and  resolved. 
But  who  does  not  know  the  feebleness  of  resolution 
when  opposed  to  temperament  and  confirmed  habits 
of  mind  ?  How  weak  is  mere  human  strength ! 
Alas !  how  few,  depending  on  that  alone,  are  ever 
able  to  bear  up  steadily,  for  any  length  of  time, 
against  the  tide  of  passion  ! 

Off  his  guard  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours 
after  resolving  thus  with  himself,  the  young  hus- 
band spoke  in  captious  disapproval  of  something 
which  Irene  had  done  or  proposed  to  do,  and  the 
consequence  was  the  assumption  on  her  part  of  a 
cold,  reserved  and  dignified  manner,  which  hurl 
and  annoyed  him  beyond  measure.  Pride  led  him 
tc  treat  her  in  the  same  way ;  and  so  for  days  they 
met  in  silence  or  formal  courtesy,  all  the  while  suf- 
fering a  degree  of  wretchedness  almost  impossible 
to  be  endured,  and  all  the  while,  which  was  worst 
of  all,  writing  on  their  hearts  bitter  things  against 
each  other. 

To  Emerson,  as  before,  the  better  state  first  re- 


74  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

turned,  and  the  sunshine  of  his  countenance  drove 
the  shadows  from  hers.  Then  for  a  season  they 
were  loving,  thoughtful,  forbearing  and  happy. 
But  the  clouds  came  back  again,  and  storms 
marred  the  beauty  of  their  lives. 

All  this  was  sad — very  sad.  There  were  good 
and  noble  qualities  in  the  hearts  of  both.  They 
were  not  narrow-minded  and  selfish,  like  so  many 
of  your  placid,  accommodating,  calculating  people, 
but  generous  in  their  feelings  and  broad  in  their 
sympathies.  They  had  ideals  of  life  that  went 
reaching  out  far  beyond  themselves.  Yes,  it  was 
Bad  to  see  two  such  hearts  beating  against  and 
bruising  each  other,  instead  of  taking  the  same 
pulsation.  But  there  seemed  to  be  no  help  for 
them.  Irene's  jealous  guardianship  of  her  free- 
dom, her  quick  temper,  pride  and  self-will  made 
the  position  of  her  husband  so  difficult  that  it  was 
almost  impossible  for  him  to  avoid  giving  offence. 

The  summer  and  fall  passed  away  without  any 
serious  rupture  between  the  sensitive  couple,  al- 
though there  had  been  seasons  of  great  unhappiness 
to  both.  Irene  had  been  up  to  Ivy  Cliff  many 
times  to  visit  her  father,  and  now  she  was  begin- 
ning to  urge  his  removal  to  the  city  for  the  winter; 
but  Mr.  Delancy,  who  had  never  given  his  full 
promise  to  this  arrangement,  felt  less  and  less  in- 
clined to  leave  his  old  home  as  the  season  advanced. 
Almost  from  boyhood  he  had  lived  there,  and  hig 
habits  were  formed  for  rural  instead  of  city  life. 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  75 

He  pictured  the  close  streets,  with  their  rows  of 
houses,  that  left  for  the  eye  only  narrow  patches  of 
ethereal  blue,  and  contrasted  this  with  the  broad 
winter  landscape,  which  for  him  had  always  spread 
itself  out  with  a  beauty  rivaled  by  no  other  season, 
and  his  heart  failed  him. 

The  brief  December  days  were  on  them,  and 
Irene  grew  more  urgent. 

"  Come,  dear  father,"  she  wrote.  "  I  think  of 
you,  sitting  all  alone  at  Ivy  Cliff,  during  these  long 
evenings,  and  grow  sad  at  heart  in  sympathy  with 
your  loneliness.  Come  at  once.  "Why  linger  a 
week  or  even  a  day  longer  ?  We  have  been  all  in 
all  to  each  other  these  many  years,  and  ought  not 
to  be  separated  now." 

But  Mr.  Delancy  was  not  ready  to  exchange  the 
pure  air  and  widespreading  scenery  of  the  High- 
lands for  a  city  residence,  even  in  the  desolate 
winter,  and  so  wrote  back  doubtingly.  Irene  and 
her  husband  then  came  up  to  add  the  persuasion 
of  their  presence  at  Ivy  Cliff.  It  did  not  avail, 
however.  The  old  man  was  too  deeply  wedded  to 
his  home. 

"  I  should  be  miserable  in  New  York,"  he  replied 
to  their  earnest  entreaties;  "and  it  would  not  add  to 
your  happiness  to  see  me  going  about  with  a  sober, 
discontented  face,  or  to  be  reminded  every  little 
while  that  if  you  had  left  me  to  my  winter's  hiber- 
nation I  would  have  been  a  contented  instead  of  a 
dissatisfied  old  man.  No,  no,  my  children ;  Ivy 


76  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

Cliff  is  the  best  place  for  me.  You  shall  come  up 
and  spend  Christmas  here,  and  we  will  have  a  gay 
season." 

There  was  no  further  use  in  argument.  Mr.  De- 
lancy  would  have  his  way ;  and  he  was  right. 

Irene  and  her  husband  went  back  to  the  city, 
with  a  promise  to  spend  Christmas  at  the  old 
homestead. 

Two  weeks  passed.  It  was  the  twentieth  of  De- 
cember. Without  previous  intimation,  Irene  came 
up  alone  to  Ivy  Cliff,  startling  her  father  by  coming 
in  suddenly  upon  him  one  dreary  afternoon,  just  as 
the  leaden  sky  began  to  scatter  down  the  winter's 
first  offering  of  snow. 

"  My  daughter !"  he  exclaimed,  so  surprised  that 
he  could  not  move  from  where  he  was  sitting. 

"  Dear  father !"  she  answered  with  a  loving 
smile,  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
kissing  him. 

"Where  is  Hartley?"  asked  the  old  man,  look- 
ing past  Irene  toward  the  door  through  which  she 
had  just  entered. 

"  Oh,  I  left  him  in  New  York,"  she  replied. 

"  In  New  York  !     Have  you  come  alone  ?" 

"  Yes.  Christmas  is  only  five  days  off,  you  know, 
and  I  am  here  to  help  you  prepare  for  it.  Of  course, 
Hartley  cannot  leave  his  business." 

She  spoke  in  an  excited,  almost  gay  tone  of  voice. 
Mr.  Delancy  looked  at  her  earnestly.  Unpleasant 
doubts  flitted  through  his  mind. 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  77 

"  When  will  your  husband  usnie  up  ?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"At  Christmas/'  she  answered,  without  hesita- 
tion. 

"  Why  didn't  you  write,  love  ?"  asked  Mr.  De- 
lancy.  "  You  have  taken  me  by  surprise,  and  set 
my  nerves  in  a  flutter." 

"  I  only  thought  about  it  last  evening.  One  of 
my  sudden  resolutions." 

And  she  laughed  a  low,  fluttering  laugh.  It 
might  have  been  an  error,  but  her  father  had  a 
fancy  that  it  did  not  come  from  her  heart. 

"  I  will  run  up  stairs  and  put  off  my  things," 
she  said,  moving  away. 

"  Did  you  bring  a  trunk  ?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  it  is  at  the  landing.  Will  you  send 
for  it?" 

And  Irene  went,  with  quick  steps,  from  the 
apartment,  and  ran  up  to  the  chamber  she  still 
called  her  own.  On  the  way  she  met  Margaret. 

"  Miss  Irene  !"  exclaimed  the  latter,  pausing  and 
lifting  her  hands  in  astonishment.  "  Why,  where 
did  you  come  from  ?" 

"Just  arrived  in  the  boat.  Have  come  to  help 
you  get  ready  for  Christmas." 

"  Please  goodness,  how  you  frightened  me !"  said 
the  warm-hearted  domestic,  who  had  been  in  the 
family  ever  since  Irene  was  a  child,  and  was 
strongly  attached  to  her.  "  How's  Mr.  Emerson .'" 

"  Oh,  he's  well,  thank  you,  Margaret." 


78  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Well  now,  child,  you  did  set  me  all  into  a 
fluster.  I  thought  maybe  you'd  got  into  one  of 
your  tantrums,  and  come  off  and  left  your  hus- 
band." 

"  Why,  Margaret !"  A  crimson  flush  mantled 
the  face  of  Irene. 

"You  must  excuse  me,  child,  but  just  that  came 
into  my  head,"  replied  Margaret.  "  You're  very 
downright  and  determined  sometimes;  and  there 
isn't  anything  hardly  that  you  wouldn't  do  if  the 
spirit  was  on  you.  I'm  glad  it's  all  right.  Dear 
me !  dear  me  !" 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  quite  so  bad  as  you  all  make  me 
out,"  said  Irene,  laughing. 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  bad,"  answered  Margaret, 
in  kind  deprecation,  yet  with  a  freedom  of  speech 
warranted  by  her  years  and  attachment  to  Irene. 
"But  you  go  off  in  such  strange  ways — get  so 
wrong-headed  sometimes — that  there's  no  counting 
on  you." 

Then,  growing  more  serious,  she  added — 

"  The  fact  is,  Miss  Irene,  you  keep  me  feeling 
kind  of  uneasy  all  the  time.  I  dreamed  about  you 
last  night,  and  maybe  that  has  helped  to  put  ine 
into  a  fluster  now." 

"  Dreamed  about  me !"  said  Irene,  with  a  degree 
of  interest  in  her  manner. 

"  Yes.  But  don't  stand  here,  Miss  Irene ;  corne 
over  to  your  room." 

"  What  kind  of  a  dream  had  you,  Margaret  ?" 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  79 

asked  the  young  wife,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  side 
of  the  bed  where,  pillowed  in  sleep,  she  had 
dreamed  so  many  of  girlhood's  pleasant  dreams. 

"  I  was  dreaming  all  night  about  you,"  replied 
Margaret,  looking  sober-faced. 

"  And  you  saw  me  in  trouble  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  yes ;  in  nothing  but  trouble.  I  thought 
once  that  I  saw  y"bu  in  a  great  room  full  of  wild 
beasts.  They  were  chained  or  in  cages ;  but  you 
would  keep  going  close  up  to  the  bars  of  the  cages, 
or  near  enough  for  the  chained  animals  to  spring 
upon  you.  And  that  wasn't  all.  You  put  the  end  of 
your  little  parasol  in  between  the  bars,  and  a  fierce 
tiger  struck  at  you  with  his  great  cat-like  paw, 
tearing  the  flesh  from  your  arm.  Then  I  saw  you 
in  a  little  boat,  down  on  the  river.  You  had  put 
up  a  sail,  and  was  going  out  all  alone.  I  saw  the 
boat  move  off  from  the  shore  just  as  plainly  as  I 
see  you  now.  I  stood  and  watched  until  you  were 
in  the  middle  of  the  river.  Then  I  thought  Mr. 
Emerson  was  standing  by  me,  and  that  we  both 
saw  a  great  monster — a  whale,  or  something  else- 
chasing  after  your  boat.  Mr.  Emerson  was  in  great 
distress,  and  said,  *  I  told  her  not  to  go,  but  she  is 
so  self-willed.'  And  then  he  jumped  into  a  boat 
and,  taking  the  oars,  went  gliding  out  after  you  as 
swiftly  as  the  wind.  I  never  saw  mortal  arm  make 
a  boat  fly  as  he  did  that  little  skiff.  And  I  saw 
him  strike  the  monster  with  his  oar  just  as  his 
huge  jaws  were  opened  to  devour  you.  Dear! 


80  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

dear !  but  I  was  frightened,  and  woke  up  all  in  a 
tremble." 

"  Before  he  had  saved  me  ?"  said  Irene,  taking  a 
deep  breath. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  don't  think  there  was  any  chance 
of  saving  there,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  waked  up 
when  I  did." 

"  What  else  did  you  dream  ?"  asked  Irene. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  all  I  dreamed.  Once  I 
saw  you  fall  from  the  high  rock  just  above  West 
Point  and  go  dashing  down  into  the  river.  Then 
I  saw  you  chased  by  a  mad  bull." 

"And  no  one  came  to  my  rescue?" 

"  Oh  yes,  there  was  more  than  one  who  tried  to 
save  you.  First,  your  father  ran  in  between  you 
and  the  bull;  but  he  dashed  over  him.  Then  I 
saw  Mr.  Emerson  rushing  up  with  a  pitchfork,  and 
he  got  before  the  mad  animal  and  pointed  the  sharp 
prongs  at  his  eyes ;  but  the  bull  tore  down  on  him 
and  tossed  him  away  up  into  the  air.  I  awoke  as 
I  saw  him  falling  on  the  sharp-pointed  horns  that 
•were  held  up  to  catch  him." 

"  Well,  Margaret,  you  certainly  had  a  night  of 
horrors,"  said  Irene,  in  a  sober  way. 

"Indeed,  miss,  and  I  had;  such  a  night  as  I 
don't  wish  to  have  again." 

"And  your  dreaming  was  all  about  me?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I  was  always  in  trouble  or  danger?" 

"  Yes,  always;  and  it  was  mostly  your  own  fault. 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  81 

too.  And  that  reminds  me  of  what  the  minister 
told  us  in  his  sermon  last  Sunday.  He  said  that 
there  were  a  great  many  kinds  of  trouble  in  this 
world — some  coming  from  the  outside  and  some 
coming  from  the  inside ;  that  the  outside  troubles, 
which  we  couldn't  help,  were  generally  easiest  to 
be  borne;  while  the  inside  troubles,  which  we 
might  have  prevented,  were  the  bitterest  things  in 
life,  because  there  was  remorse  as  well  as  suffering. 
I  understood  very  well  what  he  meant." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Irene,  speaking  partly  to 
herself,  "  that  most  of  my  troubles  come  from  the 
inside." 

"  I'm  afraid  they  do,"  spoke  out  the  frank  do- 
mestic. 

"Margaret!" 

"  Indeed,  miss,  and  I  do  think  so.  If  you'd 
only  get  right  here" — laying  her  hand  upon  her 
breast — "somebody  beside  yourself  would  be  a 
great  deal  happier.  There  now,  child,  I've  said 
it ;  and  you  needn't  go  to  getting  angry  with  me." 

"They  are  often  our  best  friends  who  use  the 
plainest  speech,"  said  Irene.  "No,  Margaret,  I 
am  not  going  to  be  angry  with  one  whom  I  know 
to  be  true-hearted." 

"Not  truer-hearted  than  your  husband,  Miss 
Irene;  nor  half  so  loving." 

"  Why  did  you  say  that  ?"  Margaret  started  at 
the  tone  of  voice  in  which  this  interrogation  was 
made. 


82  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Because  I  think  so,"  she  answered  naively. 

Irene  looked  at  her  for  some  moments  with  a 
penetrating  gaze,  and  then  said,  with  an  affected 
carelessness  of  tone — 

"Your  preacher  and  your  dreams  have  made 
you  quite  a  moralist." 

"  They  have  not  taken  from  my  heart  any  of  the 
love  it  has  felt  for  you,"  said  Margaret,  tears 
coming  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  know  that,  Margaret.  You  were  always  too 
kind  and  indulgent,  and  I  always^oo  wayward  and 
unreasonable.  But  I  am  getting  years  on  my  side, 
and  shall  not  always  be  a  foolish  girl." 

Snow  had  now  begun  to  fall  thickly,  and  the  late 
December  day  was  waning  toward  the  early  twi- 
light. Margaret  went  down  stairs  and  left  Irene 
alone  in  her  chamber,  where  she  remained  until 
nearly  tea-time  before  joining  her  father. 

Mr.  Delancy  did  not  altogether  feel  satisfied  in 
his  mind  about  this  unheralded  visit  from  his 
daughter,  with  whose  wayward  moods  he  was  too 
familiar.  It  might  be  all  as  she  said,  but  there 
were  intrusive  misgivings  that  troubled  him. 

At  tea-time  she  took  her  old  place  at  the  table 
in  such  an  easy,  natural  way,  and  looked  so  pleased 
and  happy,  that  her  father  was  satisfied.  He  asked 
about  her  husband,  and  she  talked  of  him  without 
reserve. 

"  What  day  is  Hartley  coming  up?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  hope  to  see  him  on  the  day  before  Christmas," 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  83 

returned  Irene.  There  was  a  falling  in  her  voice 
that,  to  the  ears  of  Mr.  Delancy,  betrayed  a  feeling 
of  doubt. 

"  He  will  not,  surely,  put  it  off  later,"  said  the 
father. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Irene.  "  He  may  be  pre- 
vented from  leaving  early  enough  to  reach  here 
before  Christmas  morning.  If  there  should  be  a 
cold  snap,  and  the  river  freeze  up,  it  will  make  the 
journey  difficult  and  attended  with  delay." 

"  I  think  the  winter  has  set  in ;"  and  Mr.  De- 
lancy turned  his  ear  toward  the  window,  against 
which  the  snow  and  hail  were  beating  with  vio- 
lence. "  It's  a  pity  Hartley  didn't  come  up  with 
you." 

A  sober  hue  came  over  the  face  of  Irene.  This 
did  not  escape  the  notice  of  her  father ;  but  it  was 
natural  that  she  should  feel  sober  in  thinking  of  her 
husband  as  likely  to  be  kept  from  her  by  the  storm. 
That  such  were  her  thoughts  her  words  made  evi- 
dent, for  she  said,  glancing  toward  the  window — 

"  If  there  should  be  a  deep  snow,  and  the  boats 
stop  running,  how  can  Hartley  reach  here  in  time  ?" 

On  the  next  morning  the  sun  rose  bright  and 
warm  for  the  season.  Several  inches  of  snow  had 
fallen,  giving  to  the  landscape  a  wintry  whiteness, 
but  the  wind  was  coming  in  from  the  south,  genial 
as  spring.  Before  night  half  the  snowy  covering 
was  gone. 

"  We  had  our  fears  for  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Be- 


84  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

lancy,  on  the  second  day,  which  was  as  mild  as  the 
preceding  one.  "All  things  promise  well.  I  saw 
the  boats  go  down  as  usual ;  so  the  river  is  open 
still." 

Irene  did  not  reply.  Mr.  Delancy  looked  at 
her  curiously,  but  her  face  was  partly  turned  away, 
and  he  did  not  get  its  true  expression. 

The  twenty-fourth  came.  No  letter  had  been 
receive^  by  Irene,  nor  had  she  written  to  New 
York  since  her  arrival  at  Ivy  Cliff. 

"  Isn't  it  singular  that  you  don't  get  a  letter  from 
Hartley?"  said  Mr.  Delancy. 

Irene  had  been  sitting  silent  for  some  time  when 
her  father  made  this  remark. 

"  He  is  very  busy,"  she  said,  in  reply. 

"  That's  no  excuse.  A  man  is  never  too  busy  to 
write  to  his  absent  wife." 

"  I  haven't  expected  a  letter,  and  so  am  not  dis- 
appointed. But  he's  on  his  way,  no  doubt.  How 
Boon  will  the  boat  arrive?" 

"  Between  two  and  three  o'clock." 

"  And  it's  now  ten." 

The  hours  passed  on,  and  the  time  of  arrival 
came.  The  windows  of  Irene's  chamber  looked 
toward  the  river,  and  she  was  standing  at  one  of 
them  alone  when  the  boat  came  in  sight.  Her  face 
was  almost  colorless,  and  contracted  by  an  express- 
ion of  deep  anxiety.  She  remained  on  her  feet  for 
the  half  hour  that  intervened  before  the  boat  could 
reach  the  landing.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  85 

she  Lad  watched  there,  in  the  excitement  of  doubt 
and  fear,  for  the  same  form  her  eyes  were  now 
straining  themselves  to  see. 

The  shrill  sound  of  escaping  steam  ceased  to 
quiver  on  the  air,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  boat 
shot  forward  into  view  and  went  gliding  up  the 
river.  Irene  scarcely  breathed,  as  she  stood,  with 
colorless  face,  parted  lips  and  eager  eyes,  looking 
down  the  road  that  led  to  the  landing.  But  she 
looked  in  vain ;  the  form  of  her  husband  did  not 
appear — and  it  was  Christmas  Eve  1 

What  did  it  mean  ? 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THJE  LETTER. 

A  ES,  what  did  it  mean  ?     Christmas  Eve,  and 


Hartley  still  absent  ? . 

Twilight  was  falling  when  Irene  came  down 
^  from  her  room  and  joined  her  father  in  the 
library.  Mr.  Delancy  looked  into  her  face  nar- 
rowly as  she  entered.  The  dim  light  of  the  closing 
day  was  not  strong  enough  to  give  him  its  true  ex- 
pression ;  but  he  was  not  deceived  as  to  its  troubled 
aspect. 

"And  so  Hartley  will  not  be  here  to-day,"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  that  expressed  both  disappointment 
and  concern. 

"  No.  I  looked  for  him  confidently.  It  is 
strange." 

There  was  a  constraint,  a  forced  calmness  in 
Irene's  voice  that  did  not  escape  her  father's  notice. 

"  I  hope  he  is  not  sick,"  said  Mr.  Delancy. 

"  Oh  no."  Irene  spoke  with  a  sudden  earnest- 
ness ;  then,  with  failing  tones,  added — 

"  He  should  have  been  here  to-day." 

She  sat  down  near  the  open  grate,  shading  her 
face  with  a  hand-screen,  and  remained  silent  and 
abstracted  for  some  time. 


THE  LETTER.  87 

"  There  is  scarcely  a  possibility  of  his  arrival  to- 
night," said  Mr.  Delancy.  He  could  not  get  his 
thoughts  away  from  the  fact  of  his  son-in-law's 
absence. 

"  He  will  not  be  here  to-night,"  replied  Irene,  a 
cold  dead  level  in  her  voice,  that  Mr.  Delancy  well 
understood  to  be  only  a  blind  thrown  up  to  conceal 
her  deeply-disturbed  feelings. 

"  Do  you  expect  him  to-morrow,  my  daughter  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Delancy,  a  few  moments  afterward, 
speaking  as  if  from  a  sudden  thought  or  a  sudden 
purpose.  There  was  a  meaning  in  his  tones  that 
showed  his  mind  to  be  in  a  state  not  prepared  to 
brook  evasion. 

"  I  do,"  was  the  unhesitating  answer ;  and  she 
turned  and  looked  calmly  at  her  father,  whose  eyes 
rested  with  a  fixed,  inquiring  gaze  upon  her  coun- 
tenance. But  half  her  face  was  lit  by  a  reflection 
from  the  glowing  grate,  while  half  lay  in  shadow. 
His  reading,  therefore  was  not  clear. 

If  Irene  had  shown  surprise  at  the  question,  her 
father  would  have  felt  better  satisfied.  He  meant 
it  as  a  probe;  but  if  a  tender  spot  was  reached, 
she  had  the  self-control  not  to  give  a  sign  of  pain. 
At  the  tea-table  Irene  rallied  her  spirits  and  talked 
lightly  to  her  father ;  it  was  only  by  an  effort  that 
he  could  respond  with  even  apparent  cheerfulness. 

Complaining  of  a  headache,  Irene  retired,  soon 
after  tea,  to  her  room,  and  did  not  come  down  again 
during  the  evening. 


«8  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

The  next  day  was  Christmas.  It  rose  clear  and 
mild  as  a  day  in  October.  When  Irene  came  down 
to  breakfast,  her  pale,  almost  haggard,  face  showed 
too  plainly  that  she  had  passed  a  night  of  sleepless- 
ness and  suffering.  She  said,  "A  merry  Christ- 
mas," to  her  father,  on  meeting  him,  but  there  was 
no  heart  in  the  words.  It  was  almost  impossible 
to  disguise  the  pain  that  almost  stifled  respiration. 
Neither  of  them  did  more  than  make  a  feint  at 
eating.  As  Mr.  Delancy  arose  from  the  table,  he 
said  to  Irene — 

"I  would  like  to  see  you  in  the  library,  my 
daughter." 

She  followed  him  passively,  closing  the  door 
behind  her  as  she  entered. 

"  Sit  down.  There."  And  Mr.  Delancy  placed 
a  chair  for  her,  a  little  way  from  the  grate. 

Irene  dropped  into  the  chair  like  one  who  moved 
by  another's  volition. 

"Now,  daughter,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  taking  a 
chair,  and  drawing  it  in  front  of  the  one  in  which 
she  was  seated,  "  I  am  going  to  ask  a  plain  ques- 
tion, and  I  want  a  direct  answer." 

Irene  rallied  herself  on  the  instant. 

"  Did  you  leave  New  York  with  the  knowledge 
and  consent  of  your  husband  ?" 

The  blood  mounted  to  her  face  and  stained  it  a 
deep  crimson : 

"  I  left  without  his  knowledge.  Consent  I  never 
ask." 


THE  LETTER.  89 

The  old  proud  spirit  was  in  her  tones. 

"  I  feared  as  much,"  replied  Mr.  Delancy,  his 
v  -ice  falling.  "  Then  you  do  not  expect  Hartley 
ti-day?" 

"  I  expected  him  yesterday.  He  may  be  here 
to-day.  I  am  almost  sure  he  will  come  " 

"  Does  he  know  you  are  here  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Why  did  you  leave  without  his  knowledge  ?" 

"  To  punish  him." 

"  Irene !" 

"  I  have  answered  without  evasion.  It  was  to 
punish  him." 

"  I  do  not  remember  in  the  marriage  vows  you 
took  upon  yourselves  anything  relating  to  punish- 
ments," said  Mr.  Delancy.  "  There  were  explicit 
things  said  of  love  and  duty,  but  I  do  not  recall  a 
sentence  that  referred  to  the  right  of  one  party  to 
punish  the  other." 

Mr.  Delancy  paused  for  a  few  moments,  but 
there  was  no  reply  to  this  rather  novel  and  unex- 
pected view  of  the  case. 

"  Did  you  by  anything  in  the  rite  acquire  au- 
thority to  punish  your  husband  when  his  conduct 
didn't  just  suit  your  fancy?" 

Mr.  Delancy  pressed  the  question. 

"  It  is  idle,  father,"  said  Irene,  with  some  sharp- 
ness of  tone,  "  to  make  an  issue  like  this.  It  does 
not  touch  the  case.  Away  back  of  marriage  con- 
tracts lie  individual  rights,  which  are  never  surren- 


90 


AFTER  THE  STORM. 


dered.  The  right  of  self-protection  is  one  of  these ; 
and  if  retaliation  is  needed  as  a  guarantee  of  future 
peace,  then  the  right  to  punish  is  included  in  the 
right  of  self-protection." 

"  A  peace  gained  through  coercion  of  any  kind  is 
not  worth  having.  It  is  but  the  semblance  of 
peace — is  war  in  bonds,"  replied  Mr.  Delancy. 
"The  moment  two  married  partners  begin  the 
work  of  coercion  and  punishment,  that  moment 
love  begins  to  fail.  If  love  gives  not  to  their 
hearts  a  common  beat,  no  other  power  is  strong 
enough  to  do  the  work.  Irene,  I  did  hope  that  the 
painful  experiences  already  passed  through  would 
have  made  you  wiser.  It  seems  not,  however.  It 
seems  that  self-will,  passion  and  a  spirit  of  retalia- 
tion are  to  govern  your  actions,  instead  of  patience 
and  love.  Well,  my  child,  if  you  go  on  sowing 
this  seed  in  your  garden  now,  in  the  spring-time 
of  life,  you  must  not  murmur  when  autumn  gives 
you  a  harvest  of  thorns  and  thistles.  If  you  sow 
tares  in  your  field,  you  must  not  expect  to  find  corn 
there  when  you  put  in  your  sickle  to  reap.  You 
can  take  back  your  morning  salutation.  It  is  not 
a  '  merry  Christmas'  to  you  or  to  me ;  and  I  think 
we  are  both  done  with  merry  Christmases." 

"  Father !" 

The  tone  in  which  this  word  was  uttered  was 
almost  a  cry  of  pain. 

"  It  is  even  so,  my  child — even  so,"  replied  Mr. 
Delancy,  in  a  voice  of  irrepressible  sadness.  "  You 


THE  LETTER.  91 

nave  left  your  husband  a  secern!  time.  It  is  not 
every  man  who  would  forgive  tiie  first  offence;  not 
one  in  twenty  who  would  pardon  the  second.  You 
are  in  great  peril,  Irene.  This  storm  that  you  have 
conjured  up  may  drive  you  to  hopeless  shipwreck. 
You  need  not  expect  Hartley  to-day.  He  will  not 
come.  I  have  studied  his  character  well,  and  kno>v 
that  he  will  not  pass  this  conduct  over  lightly." 

Even  while  this  was  said  a  servant,  who  had 
been  over  to  the  village,  brought  in  a  letter  and 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Delancy,  who,  recognizing  in  the 
superscription  the  handwriting  of  his  daughter's 
husband,  broke  the  seal  hurriedly.  The  letter  was 
in  these  words : 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  As  your  daughter  has  left 
me,  no  doubt  with  the  purpose  of  finally  abandon- 
ing the  effort  to  live  in  that  harmony  so  essential 
to  happiness  in  married  life,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you 
will  choose  some  judicious  friend  to  represent  her 
in  consultation  with  a  friend  whom  I  will  select, 
with  a  view  to  the  arrangement  of  a  separation,  as 
favorable  to  her  in  its  provisions  as  it  can  possibly 
be  made.  In  view  of  the  peculiarity  of  our  tem- 
peraments, we  made  a  great  error  in  this  experi- 
ment. My  hope  was  that  love  would  be  counselor 
to  us  both ;  that  the  law  of  mutual  forbearance 
would  have  rule.  But  we  are  both  too  impulsive, 
too  self-willed,  too  undisciplined.  I  do  not  pretend 
to  throw  all  the  blame  on  Irene.  We  are  as  flint 


92  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

and  steel.  But  she  has  taken  the  responsibility  of 
separation,  and  I  am  left  without  alternative.  May 
God  lighten  the  burden  of  pain  her  heart  will  have 
to  bear  in  the  ordeal  through  which  she  has  elected 
to  pass. 

"  Your  unhappy  son, 

"HAKTLEY  EMEKSON." 

Mr.  Delancy's  hand  shook  so  violently  before  he 
had  finished  reading  that  the  paper  rattled  in  the 
air.  On  finishing  the  last  sentence  he  passed  it, 
without  a  word,  to  his  daughter.  It  was  some  mo- 
ments before  the  strong  agitation  produced  by  the 
sight  of  this  letter,  and  its  effect  upon  her  father, 
could  be  subdued  enough  to  enable  her  to  read  a 
line. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  father  ?  I  don't  understand 
it,"  she  said,  in  a  hoarse,  deep  whisper,  and  with 
pale,  quivering  lips. 

"It  means,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  "that  your  hus- 
band has  taken  you  at  your  word." 

"  At  my  word !     What  word  ?" 

"  You  have  left  the  home  he  provided  for  you,  I 
believe?" 

"  Father !" 

Her  eyes  stood  out  staringly. 

"  Let  me  read  the  letter  for  you."  And  he  took 
it  from  her  hand.  After  reading  it  aloud  and 
slowly,  he  said — 

"  That  is  plain  talk,  Irene.     I  do  not  think  any 


THE  LETTER.  93 

one  can  misunderstand  it.  You  have,  in  his  view, 
left  him  finally,  and  he  now  asks  me  to  name  a 
judicioug  friend  to  meet  his  friend,  aiid  arrange  a 
basis  of  separation  as  favorable  to  you  ill  its  pro- 
visions as  it  can  possibly  be  made." 

"  A  separation,  father !  Oh  no,  he  cannot  mean 
that !"  And  she  pressed  her  hands  strongly  against 
her  temples. 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  that  is  the  simple  meaning." 

"  Oh  no,  no,  no  !     He  never  meant  that." 

"You  left  him?" 

"  But  not  in  that  way ;  not  in  earnest.  It  was 
only  in  fitful  anger — half  sport,  half  serious." 

"Then,  in  Heaven's  name,  sit  down  and  write 
him  so,  and  that  without  the  delay  of  an  instant. 
Pie  has  put  another  meaning  on  your  conduct.  He 
believes  that  you  have  abandoned  him." 

"Abandoned  him  !  Madness!"  And  Irene,  who 
had  risen  from  her  chair,  commenced  moving  about 
the  room  in  a  wild,  irresolute  kind  of  way,  some- 
thing like  an  actress  under  tragic  excitement. 

"  This  is  meant  to  punish  me !"  she  said,  stop- 
ping suddenly,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  slightly 
touched  with  indignation.  "I  understand  it  all, 
and  see  it  as  a  great  outrage.  Hartley  knows  as 
well  I  do  that  I  left  as  much  in  sport  as  in  earnest. 
But  this  is  carrying  the  joke  too  far.  To  write 
such  a  letter  to  you  !  Why  didn't  he  write  to  me  ? 
Why  didn't  he  ask  me  to  appoint  a  friend  to  repre- 
sent me  in  the  arrangement  proposed  V" 


94  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  He  understood  himself  and  the  case  entirely," 
replied  Mr.  Delancy.  "  Believing  that  you  had 
abandoned  him — " 

"  He  didn't  believe  any  such  thing !"  exclaimed 
Irene,  in  strong  excitement. 

"  You  are  deceiving  yourself,  my  daughter.  His 
letter  is  calm  and  deliberate.  It  was  not  written, 
as  you  can  see  by  the  date,  until  yesterday.  He 
has  taken  time  to  let  passion  cool.  Three  days 
were  permitted  to  elapse,  that  you  might  be  heard 
from  in  case  any  change  of  purpose  occurred.  But 
you  remained  silent.  You  abandoned  him." 

"  Oh,  father,  why  will  you  talk  in  this  way  ?  I 
tell  you  that  Hartley  is  only  doing  this  to  punish 
me ;  that  he  has  no  more  thought  of  an  actual  .sepa- 
ration than  he  has  of  dying." 

"Admit  this  to  be  so,  which  I  only  do  in  the 
argument,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  "and  what  better 
aspect  does  it  present  ?" 

"  The  better  aspect  of  sport  as  compared  with 
earnest,"  replied  Irene. 

"At  which  both  will  continue  to  play  until  ear- 
nest is  reached — and  a  worse  earnest  than  the 
present.  Take  the  case  as  you  will,  and  it  is  one 
of  the  saddest  and  least  hopeful  that  I  have 
seen." 

Irene  did  not  reply. 

"  You  must  elect  some  course  of  action,  and  that 
with  the  least  possible  delay,"  said  Mr.  Delancy. 
"  This  letter  requires  an  immediate  answer.  Go  to 


THE  LETTER.  95 

your  room  and,  in  communion  with  God  and  your 
own  heart,  come  to  some  quick  decision  upon  the 
subject." 

Irene  turned  away  without  speaking  and  left  her 
feier  alone  in  the  library. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE  FLIGHT  AUD  THE 


fE  will  not  speak  of  the  cause  that  led  to  this 
serious  rupture  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Em- 
erson. It  was  light  as  vanity  —  an  airy 
nothing  in  itself  —  a  spark  that  would  have 
gone  out  on  a  baby's  cheek  without  leaving  a  sign 
of  its  existence.  On  the  day  that  Irene  left  the 
home  of  her  husband  he  had  parted  from  her 
silent,  moody  and  with  ill-concealed  anger.  Hard 
words,  reproaches  and  accusations  had  passed  be- 
tween them  on  the  night  previous  ;  and  both  felt 
unusually  disturbed.  The  cause  of  all  this,  as  we 
have  said,  was  light  as  vanity.  During  the  day 
Mr.  Emerson,  who  was  always  first  to  come  to  his 
senses,  saw  the  folly  of  what  had  occurred,  and 
when  he  turned  his  face  homeward,  after  three 
o'clock,  it  was  with  the  purpose  of  ending  the  un- 
happy state  by  recalling  a  word  to  which  he  had 
given  thoughtless  utterance. 

The  moment  our  young  husband  came  to  this 
sensible  conclusion  his  heart  beat  with  a  freer 
motion  and  his  spirits  rose  again  into  a  region  of 
tranquillity.  He  felt  the  old  tenderness  toward 
his  wife  returning,  dwelt  on  her  beauty,  accom- 

96 


THE  FLIGHT  AND  THE  RETURN.          97 

plishments,  rirtues  and  high  mental  endowments 
with  a  glow  of  pride,  and  called  her  defects  of  cha- 
racter light  in  comparison. 

"  If  I  were  more  a  man,  and  less  a  child  of  feel- 
ing and  impulse,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  would  be 
more  worthy  to  hold  the  place  of  husband  to  a 
woman  like  Irene.  She  has  strong  peculiarities — 
who  has  not  peculiarities  ?  Am  I  free  from  them  ? 
She  is  no  ordinary  woman,  and  must  not  be  tram- 
meled by  ordinary  tame  routine.  She  has  quick 
impulses ;  therefore,  if  I  love  her,  should  I  not 
guard  them,  lest  they  leap  from  her  feebly  restrain- 
ing hand  in  the  wrong  direction  ?  She  is  sensitive 
to  control ;  why,  then,  let  her  see  the  hand  that 
must  lead  her,  sometimes,  aside  from  the  way  she 
would  walk  through  the  promptings  of  her  own 
will  ?  Do  I  not  know  that  she  loves  me  ?  And  is 
she  not  dear  to  me  as  my  own  life  ?  What  folly 
to  strive  with  each  other !  What  madness  to  let 
angry  feelings  shadow  for  an  instant  our  lives  I" 

It  was  in  this  state  of  mind  that  Emerson  re- 
turned home.  There  were  a  few  misgivings  in  his 
heart  as  he  entered,  for  he  was  not  sure  as  to  the 
kind  of  reception  Irene  would  offer  his  overtures 
for  peace ;  but  there  was  no  failing  of  his  purpose 
to  sue  for  peace  and  obtain  it.  With  a  quick  step 
he  .passed  through  the  hall,  and,  after  glancing  into 
ihe  parlors  to  see  if  his  wife  were  there,  went  up 
stairs  with  two  or  three  light  bounds.  A  hurried 
glance  through  the  chambers  showed  him  that  they 
7 


98  AFTER  TEE  STORM. 

had  no  occupant.  He  was  turning  to  leave  them, 
when  a  letter,  placed  upright  on  a  bureau,  attracted 
his  attention.  He  caught  it  up.  It  was  addressed 
to  him  in  the  well-known  hand  of  his  wife*.  He 
opened  it  and  read : 

"  I  leave  for  Ivy  Cliff  to-day.  IRENE." 

Two  or  three  times  Emerson  read  the  line — "  I 
leave  for  Ivy  Cliff  to-day" — and  looked  at  the 
signature,  before  its  meaning  came  fully  into  his 
thought. 

"  Gone  to  Ivy  Cliff!"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  low, 
hoarse  voice.  "  Gone,  and  without  a  word  of  inti- 
mation or  explanation !  Gone,  and  in  the  heat  of 
anger !  Has  it  come  to  this,  and  so  soon !  God 
help  us !"  And  the  unhappy  man  sunk  into  a 
chair,  heart-stricken  and  weak  as  a  child. 

For  nearly  the  whole  of  the  night  that  followed 
he  walked  the  floor  of  his  room,  and  the  next  day 
found  him  in  a  feverish  condition  of  both  mind 
and  body.  Not  once  did  the  thought  of  following 
his  wife  to  Ivy  Cliff,  if  it  came  into  his  mind,  rest 
there  for  a  moment.  She  had  gone  home  to  her 
father  with  only  an  announcement  of  the  fact.  He 
would  wait  some  intimation  of  her  further  purpose; 
but,  if  they  met  again,  she  must  come  back  to  him. 
This  was  his  first,  spontaneous  conclusion ;  and  it 
was  not  questioned  in  his  thought,  nor  did  he  waver 
from  it  an  instant.  She  must  come  back  of  her 
own  free  will,  if  she  came  back  at  all. 


THE  FLIGHT  AND  THE  RETURN.          93 

It  was  on  the  twentieth  day  of  December  that 
Irene  left  New  York.  Not  until  the  twenty-second 
could  a  letter  from  her  reach  Hartley,  if,  on  reflec- 
tion or  after  conference  with  her  father,  she  desired 
to  make  a  communication.  But  the  twenty-second 
came  and  departed  without  a  word  from  the  absent 
one.  So  did  the  twenty-third.  By  this  time  Hart- 
ley had  grown  very  calm,  self-adjusted  and  reso- 
lute. He  had  gone  over  and  over  again  the  history 
of  their  lives  since  marriage  bound  them  together, 
and  in  this  history  he  could  see  nothing  hopeful  as 
bearing  on  the  future.  He  was  never  certain  of 
Irene.  Things  said  and  done  in  moments  of 
thoughtlessness  or  excitement,  and  not  meant  to 
hurt  or  offend,  were  constantly  disturbing  their 
peace.  It  was  clouds,  and  rain,  and  fitful  sun- 
shine all  the  while.  There  were  no  long  seasons 
of  serene  delight. 

"Why,"  he  said  to  himself,  "seek  to  prolong 
this  effort  to  blend  into  one  two  lives  that  seem 
hopelessly  antagonistic.  Better  stand  as  far  apart 
as  the  antipodes  than  live  in  perpetual  strife.  If  I 
should  go  to  Irene,  and,  through  concession  or  en- 
treaty, win  her  back  again,  what  guarantee  would 
I  have  for  the  future?  None,  none  whatever. 
Sooner  or  later  we  must  be  driven  asunder  by  the 
violence  of  our  ungovernable  passions,  never  to 
draw  again  together.  We'  are  apart  now,  and  it  is 
well.  I  shall  not  take  the  first  step  toward  a 
reconciliation." 


100  AFTER  TEE  STORM. 

Hartley  Emerson  was  a  young  man  of  cool  pur- 
pose and  strong  will.  For  all  that,  he  was  quick- 
tempered and  undisciplined.  It  was  from  the 
possession  of  these  qualities  that  he  was  steadily 
advancing  in  his  profession,  and  securing  a  practice 
at  the  bar  which  promised  to  give  him  a  high  posi- 
tion in  the  future.  Persistence  was  another  element 
of  his  character.  If  he  adopted  any  course  of  con- 
duct, it  was  a  difficult  thing  to  turn  him  aside. 
When  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  plough,  he  was  of 
those  who  rarely  look  back.  Unfortunate  qualities 
these  for  a  crisis  in  life  such  as  now  existed. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fourth  of  Decem- 
ber, no  word  having  come  from  his  wife,  Emerson 
coolly  penned  the  letter  to  Mr.  Delancy  which  is 
given  in  the  preceding  chapter,  and  mailed  it  sc 
that  it  would  reach  him  on  Christmas  day.  He 
was  in  earnest — sternly  in  earnest — as  Mr.  Delancy, 
on  reading  his  letter,  felt  him  to  be.  The  honey- 
moon flight  was  one  thing ;  this  abandonment  of  a 
husband's  home,  another  thing.  Emerson  gave  to 
them  a  different  weight  and  quality.  Of  the  first 
act  he  could  never  think  without  a  burning  cheek — 
a  sense  of  mortification — a  pang  of  wounded  pride ; 
and  long  ere  this  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  if 
Irene  ever  left  him  again,  it  would  be  for  ever,  so 
far  as  perpetuity  depended  on  his  action  in  the 
case.  He  would  never  follow  her  nor  seek  to  win 
her  back. 

Yes,  he  was  in  earnest.     He  had  made  his  mind 


THE  FLIGHT  AND  THE  RETURN.        .101 

up  for  the  worst,  and  was  acting  with  a  desperate 
coolness  only  faintly  imagined  by  Irene  on  receipt 
of  his  letter  to  her  father.  Mr.  Delancy,  who 
understood'Emerson's  character  better,  was  not  de- 
ceived. He  took  the  communication  in  its  literal 
meaning,  and  felt  appalled  at  the  ruin  which  im- 
pended. 

Emerson  passed  the  whole  of  Christmas  Jay 
alone  in  his  house.  At  meal-times  he  went  to  the 
table  and  forced  himself  to  partake  lightly  of  food, 
in  order  to  blind  the  servants,  whose  curiosity  in 
regard  to  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Emerson  was,  of 
course,  all  on  the  alert.  After  taking  tea  he  went 
out. 

His  purpose  was  to  call  upon  a  friend  in  whom 
he  had  great  confidence,  and  confide  to  him  the  un- 
happy state  of  his  affairs.  For  an  hour  he  walked 
the  streets  in  debate  on  the  propriety  of  this  course. 
Unable,  however,  to  see  the  master  clearly,  he  re- 
turned home  with  the  secret  of  his  domestic  trou- 
ble still  locked  in  his  own  bosom. 

It  was  past  eight  o'clock  when  he  entered  his 
dwelling.  A  light  was  burning  in  one  of  the  par- 
lors, and  he  stepped  into  the  room.  After  walk- 
ing for  two  or  three  times  the  length  of  the  apart- 
ment, Mr.  Emerson  threw  himself  on  a  sofa,  a 
deep  sigh  escaping  his  lips  as  he  did  so.  At  the 
same  moment  he  heard  a  step  in  the  passage,  and 
the  rustling  of  a  woman's  garments,  which  caused 
him  to  start  again  to  his  f  ^et.  In  moving  his  eyes 


102 ,.  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

met  the  tbrra  of  Irene,  who  advanced  toward  him, 
and  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck,  sobbed, 

"  Dear  husband !  can  you,  will  you  forgive  my 
childish  folly?" 

His  first  impulse  was  to  push  her  away,  and  he 
even  grasped  her  arms  and  attempted  to  draw  them 
from  his  neck.  She  perceived  this,  and  clung  to 
him  more  eagerly. 

"  Dear  Hartley !"  she  said,  "  will  you  not  speak 
to  me  ?" 

"  Irene  I"  His  voice  was  cold  and  deep,  and  aa 
he  pronounced  her  name  he  withdrew  himself  from 
her  embrace.  At  this  she  grew  calm  and  stepped 
a  pace  back  from  him. 

"  Irene,  we  are  not  children,"  he  said,  in  the 
same  cold,  deep  voice,  the  tones  of  which  were 
even  and  measured.  "  That  time  is  past.  Nor 
foolish  young  lovers,  who  fall  out  and  make  up 
again  twice  or  thrice  in  a  fortnight ;  but  man  and 
wife,  with  the  world  and  its  sober  realities  before 
us. 

"  Oh,  Hartley,"  exclaimed  Irene,  as  he  paused  ; 
"  don't  talk  to  me  in  this  way !  Don't  look  at  me 
so!  It  will  kill  me.  I  have  done  wrong.  I  have 
ncted  like  a  foolish  child.  But  I  am  penitent.  It 
was  half  in  sport  that  I  went  away,  and  I  was  so 
sure  of  seeing  you  at  Ivy  Cliff  yesterday  that  I 
told  father  you  were  coming." 

"  Irene,  sit  down."  And  Emerson  took  the 
hand  of  his  wife  and  led  her  to  a  sofa.  Then, 


THE  FLIGHT  AND  THE  RETURN.        103 

after  closing  the  parlor  door,  he  drew  a  chair  and 
seated  himself  directly  in  front  of  .her.  There  was 
a  coldness  and  self-possession  about  him  that 
chilled  Irene. 

"  It  is  a  serious  thing,"  he  said,  looking 
steadily  in  her  face,  "  for  a  wife  to  leave,  in  anger, 
her  husband's  house  for  that  of  her  father." 

She  tried  to  make  some  reply  and  moved  her 
lips  in  attempted  utterance,  but  the  organs  of 
speech  refused  to  perform  their  office. 

"  You  left  me  once  before  in  anger,  and  I  went 
after  you.  But  it  was  clearly  understood  with  my- 
self then  that  if  you  repeated  the  act  it  would  be 
final  in  all  that  appertained  to  me;  that  unless  you 
returned,  it  would  be  a  lifelong  separation.  You 
have  repeated  the  act;  and,  knowing  your  pride 
and  tenacity  of  will,  I  did  not  anticipate  your  re- 
turn. And  so  I  was  looking  the  sad,  stern  future 
in  the  face  as  steadily  as  possible,  and  preparing  to 
meet  it  as  a  man  conscious  of  right  should  be  pre- 
pared to  meet  whatever  trouble  lies  in  store  for 
him.  I  went  out  this  evening,  after  passing  the 
Christmas  day  alone,  with  the  purpose  of  consult- 
ing an  old  and  discreet  friend  as  to  the  wisest 
course  of  action.  But  the  thing  was  too  painful 
to  speak  of  yet.  So  I  came  back — and  you  are 
here!" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  while  he  spoke,  her 
face  white  as  marble,  and  her  colorless  lips  drawn 
from  her  teeth. 


104  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Irene,"  he  continued,  "  it  is  folly  for  us  to  keep 
on  in  the  way  we  have  been  going.  I  am  wearied 
out,  and  you  cannot  be  happy  in  a  relation  that  is 
for  ever  reminding  you  that  your  own  will  and 
thought  are  no  longer  sole  arbiters  of  action ;  that 
there  is  another  will  and  another  thought  that  must 
at  times  be  consulted,  and  even  obeyed.  I  am  a 
man,  and  a  husband ;  you  a  woman,  and  a  wife, — 
we  are  equal  as  to  rights  and  duties — equal  in  the 
eyes  of  God  ;  but  to  the  man  and  husband  apper- 
tains a  certain  precedence  in  action ;  consent,  co- 
operation and  approval,  -if  he  be  a  thoughtful  and 
judicious  man,  appertaining  to  the  wife." 

As  Emerson  spoke  thus,  he  noticed  a  sign  of 
returning  warmth  in  her  pale  face,  and  a  dim,  dis- 
tant flash  in  her  eyes.  Her  proud  spirit  did  not 
accept  this  view  of  their  relation  to  each  other. 
He  went  on : 

i(  If  a  wife  has  no  confidence  in  her  husband's 
manly  judgment,  if  she  cannot  even  respect  him, 
then  the  case  is  altered.  She  must  be  understand- 
ing and  will  to  herself;  must  lead  both  him  and 
herself  if  he  be  weak  enough  to  consent.  But  the 
relation  is  not  a  true  one;  and  marriage,  under 
this  condition  of  things,  is  only  a  semblance." 

"And  that  is  your  doctrine?"  said  Irene.  There 
was  a  shade  of  surprise  in  her  voice  that  lingered 
huskily  in  her  throat. 

"  Tlfat  is  my  doctrine,"  was  Emerson's  firmly 
spoken  answer. 


THE  FLIGHT  AND  THE  RETURN.         105 

Irene  sighed  heavily.  Both  were  silent  for 
some  moments.  At  length  Irene  said,  lifting  her 
hands  and  bringing  them  down  with  an  action  of 
despair, 

"  In  bonds !  in  bonds  1" 

"  No,  no !"  Her  husband  replied  quickly  and 
earnestly.  .  "  Not  in  bonds,  but  in  true  freedom,  if 
you  will — the  freedom  of  reciprocal  action." 

"  Like  bat  and  ball,"  she  answered,  with  bitter- 
ness in  her  tones. 

"  No,  like  heart  and  lungs,"  he  returned,  calmly. 
"Irene!  dear  wife!  Why  misunderstand  me? 
I  have  no  wish  to  rule,  and  you  know  I  have 
never  sought  to  place  you  in  bonds.  I  have  had 
only  one  desire,  and  that  is  to  be  your  husband  in 
the  highest  and  truest  sense.  But,  I  am  a  man — 
you  a  woman.  There  are  two  wills  and  two  un- 
derstandings that  must  act  in  the  same  direction. 
Now,  in  the  nature  of  things,  the  mind  of  one 
must,  helped  by  the  mind  of  the  other  to  see  right, 
take,  as  a  general  thing,  the  initiative  where  action 
is  concerned.  Unless  this  be  so,  constant  collisions 
will  occur.  And  this  takes  us  back  to  the  question 
that  lies  at  the  basis  of  all  order  and  happiness — 
which  of  the  two  minds  shall  lead  ?" 

"  A  man  and  his  wife  are  equal,"  said  Irene, 
firmly.  The  strong  individuality  of  her  character 
was  asserting  its  claims  even  in  this  hour  of  severe 
mental  pain. 

"  Equal  in  the  eyes  of  God,  as  I  have  said  be- 


106  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

fore,  but  where  action  is  concerned  one  must  lake 
precedence  of  the  other,  for  it  cannot  be,  seeing 
that  their  office  and  duties  are  different,  that  their 
judgment  in  the  general  affairs  of  life  can  be 
equally  clear.  A  man's  work  takes  him  out  into 
the  world,  and  throws  him  into  sharp  collision  with 
other  men.  He  learns,  as  a  consequence,  to  think 
carefully  and  with  deliberation,  and  to  decide  with 
caution,  knowing  that  action,  based  on  erroneous 
conclusions,  may  ruin  his  prospects  in  an  hour. 
Thus,  like  the  oak,  which  grows  up  exposed  to  all 
elemental  changes,  his  judgment  gains  strength, 
while  his  perceptions,  constantly  trained,  acquire 
clearness.  But  a  woman's  duties  lie  almost  wholly 
•within  this  region  of  strife  and  action,  and  she  re- 
mains, for  the  most  part,  in  a  tranquil  atmosphere. 
Allowing  nothing  for  a  radical  difference  in  mental 
constitution,  this  difference  of  training  must  give 
a  difference  of  mental  power.  The  man's  judg- 
ment in  affairs  generally  must  be  superior  to  the 
•woman's,  and  she  must  acquiesce  in  its  decisions 
or  there  can  be  no  right  union  in  marriage." 

"  Must  lose  herself  in  him,"  said  Irene,  coldly. 
"  Become  a  cypher,  a  slave.  That  will  not  suit 
me,  Hartley !"  And  she  looked  at  him  with  firmly 
compressed  mouth  and  steady  eyes. 

It  came  to  his  lips  to  reply,  "Then  you  had 
better  return  to  your  father,"  but  he  caught  the 
words  back  ere  they  leaped  forth  into  sound,  and, 
rising,  walked  the  floor  for  the  space  of  more  than 


THE  FLIGHT  AND  THE  RETURN.         107 

five  minutes,  Irene  not  stirring  from  tlie  sofa. 
Pausing  at  length,  he  said  in  a  voice  which  had 
lost  its  steadiness : 

"You  had  better  go  up  to  your  room,  Irene. 
We  are  not  in  a  condition  to  help  each  other  now." 

Mrs.  Emerson  did  not  answer,  but,  rising,  left 
the  parlor  and  went  as  her  husband  had  juggested. 
He  stood  still,  listening,  until  the  sound  of  her 
steps  and  the  rustle  of  her  garments  had  died  a\vay 
into  silence,  when  he  commenced  slowly  walking 
the  parlor  floor  with  his  head  bent  down,  and  con- 
tinued thus,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  time  and  place, 
for  over  an  hour.  Then,  awakened  to  conscious- 
ness by  a  sense  of  dizziness  and  exhaustion,  he  laid 
himself  upon  a  sofa,  and,  shutting  his  eyes,  tried 
to  arrest  the  current  of  his  troubled  thoughts  and 
#ipk  into  sleep  and  forgetfulness. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  RECONCILIATION. 

)R  such  a  reception  the  young  wife  was  wholly 
unprepared.  Suddenly  her  husband  had  put 
on  a  new  character  and  assumed  a  right  of 
control  against  which  her  sensitive  pride  and 
native  love  of  freedom  arose  in  strong  rebellion. 
That  she  had  done  wrong  in  going  away  she  ac- 
knowledged to  herself,  and  had  acknowledged  to 
him.  But  he  had  met  confession  in  a  spirit  so 
different  from  what  was  anticipated,  and  showed  an 
aspect  so  cold,  stern,  and  exacting,  that  she  was 
bewildered.  She  did  not,  however,  mistake  the 
meaning  of  his  language.  It  was  plain  that  she 
understood  the  man's  position  to  be  one  of  dicta- 
tion and  control :  we  use  the  stronger  aspect  in 
which  it  was  presented  to  her  mind.  As  to  sub- 
mission, it  was  not  in  all  her  thoughts.  Wrung  to 
agony  as  her  heart  was,  and  appalled  as  she  looked, 
trembling  and  shrinking  into  the  future,  she  did 
not  yield  a  moment  to  weakness. 

Midnight  found  Irene  alone  in   her  chamber. 

She  had  flung  herself  upon  a  bed  when  she  came 

up  from  the  parlor,  and  fallen  asleep  after  an  hour 

of  fruitless  beating  about  in  her  mind.     Awaking 

108 


THE  RECONCILIATION.  109 

from  a  maze  of  troubled  dre?ms,  she  started  up 
and  gazed,  half  fearfully,  around  the  dimly-lighted 
room. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  she  asked  herself.  Some  mo- 
ments elapsed  before  the  painful  events  of  the  past 
few  days  began  to  reveal  themselves  to  her  con- 
sciousness. 

"And  where  is  Hartley?"  This  question  fol- 
lowed as  soon  as  all  grew  clear.  Sleep  had  tran- 
quilized  her  state,  and  restored  a  measure  of  just 
perception.  Stepping  from  the  bed,  she  went  from 
the  room  and  passed  silently  down  stairs.  A  light 
still  burned  in  the  parlor  where  she  had  left  her 
husband  some  hours  before,  and  streamed  out 
through  the  partly  opened  door.  She  stood  for 
some  moments,  listening,  but  there  was  no  sound 
of  life  within.  A  sudden  fear  crept  into  her  heart. 
Her  hand  shook  as  she  laid  it  upon  the  door  and 
pressed  it  open.  Stepping  within,  she  glanced 
around  with  a  frightened  air. 

On  the  sofa  lay  Hartley,  with  his  face  toward 
the  light.  It  was  wan  and  troubled,  and  the  brows 
were  contracted  as  if  from  intense  pain.  For  some 
moments  Irene  stood  looking  at  him ;  but  his  eyes 
were  shut  and  he  lay  perfectly  still.  She  drew 
nearer  and  bent  down  over  him.  He  was  sleeping, 
but  his  breath  came  so  faintly,  and  there  was  so 
little  motion  of  his  chest,  that  the  thought  flashed 
through  her  with  an  electric  thrill  that  he  might  be 
dying !  Only  by  a  strong  effort  of  self-control  did 


110  AFTER  THE  STOEM. 

she  repress  a  cry  of  fear,  or  keep  back  her  hands 
from  clasping  his  neck.  In  what  a  strong  tide 
did  love  rush  back  upon  her  soul !  Her  heart 
overflowed  with  tenderness,  was  oppressed  with 
yearning. 

"  Oh,  Hartley,  my  husband,  my  dear  husband !" 
she  cried  out,  love,  fear,  grief  and  anguish  blending 
wildly  in  her  voice,  as  she  caught  him  in  her  arms 
and  awoke  him  with  a  rain  of  tears  and  kisses. 

"  Irene !  Love !  Darling !  What  ails  you  ? 
"Where  are  we  ?"  were  the  confusedly  uttered  sen- 
tences of  Mr.  Emerson,  as  he  started  from  the  sofa 
and,  holding  his  young  wife  from  him,  looked  into 
her  weeping  face. 

"  Call  me  again  '  love'  and  '  darling/  and  I  care 
not  where  we  are !"  she  answered,  in  tones  of  pas- 
sionate entreaty.  "Oh,  Hartley,  my  dear,  dear 
husband !  A  desert  island,  with  you,  would  be  a 
paradise ;  a  paradise,  without  you,  a  weary  desert ! 
Say  the  words  again.  Call  me  '  darling !'  "  And 
Bhe  let  her  head  fall  upon  his  bosom. 

"  God  bless  you  !"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  upon 
her  head.  He  was  awake  and  clearly  conscious  of 
place  and  position.  His  voice  was  distinct,  but 
tremulous  and  solemn.  "  God  bless  you,  Irene,  my 
wife!" 

"And  make  me  worthy  of  your  love,"  she  re- 
sponded faintly. 

"Mutually  worthy  of  each  other,"  said  he. 
"Wiser — better — more  patient  and  forbearing. 


THE  RECONCILIA  TION.  Ill 

Oh,  Irene,"  and  his  voice  grew  deep  and  tender, 
"  why  may  we  not  be  to  each  other  all  that  our 
hearts  desire?" 

"  We  can — we  muft — we  will !"  she  answered, 
lifting  her  hidden  face  from  his  bosom  and  turning 
it  up  fondly  to  his.  "  God  helping  me,  I  will  be 
to  you  a  better  wife  in  the  future." 

"And  I  a  more  patient,  loving,  and  forbearing 
husband,"  he  replied.  "  Oh  that  our  hearts  might 
beat  together  as  one  heart !" 

For  a  little  while  Irene  continued  to  gaze  into 
her  husband's  countenance  with  looks  of  the  ten- 
derest  love,  and  then  hid  her  face  on  his  bosoin 
again. 

And  thus  were  they  again  reconciled. 


CHAPTER  X. 

4.FTER    THE   8TOS3T. 

iFTER  the  storm.     And  they  were  reconciled. 
The  clouds  rolled  back;    the  sun  came  out 
again   with   his   radiant    smiles    and    genial 
warmth.     But  was  nothing  broken  ?  nothing 
lost?     Did  each  flower  in  the  garden  of  love  lift 
its  head  as  bravely  as  before  ?     In  every  storm  of 
passion  something  is  lost.     Anger  is  a  blind  fury, 
who  tramples  ruthlessly  on  tenderest  and  holiest 
things.     Alas   for  the  ruin   that  waits  upon  her 
footsteps ! 

The  day  that  followed  this  night  of  reconcil- 
iation had  many  hours  of  sober  introversion  of 
thought  for  both  Emerson  and  his  wife ;  hours  in 
which  memory  reproduced  language,  conduct  and 
sentiments  that  could  not  be  dwelt  upon  without 
painful  misgivings  for  the  future.  They  under- 
stood each  other  too  well  to  make  light  account 
of  things  said  and  done,  even  in  anger. 

In  going  over,  as  Irene  did  many  times,  the  lan- 
guage used  by  her  husband  on  the  night  before, 
touching  their  relation  as  man  and  wife,  and  his 
prerogative,  she  felt  the  old  spirit  of  revolt  arising. 
She  tried  to  let  her  thought  fall  into  his  rational 

112 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  113 

presentation  of  the  question  involving  precedence, 
and  even  said  to  herself  that  he  was  right;  but 
pride  was  strong,  and  kept  lifting  itself  in  her 
mind.  She  saw,  most  clearly,  the  hardest  aspect 
of  the  case.  It  was,  in  her  view,  command  and 
obedience.  And  she  knew  that  submission  was, 
for  her,  impossible. 

On  the  part  of  Emerson,  the  day's  sober  thought 
left  his  mind  iii  no  more  hopeful  condition  than 
that  of  his  wife.  The  pain  suffered  in  consequence 
of  her  temporary  flight  from  home,  though  lessened 
by  her  return,  had  not  subsided.  A  portion  of  con- 
fidence in  her  was  lost.  He  felt  that  he  had  no 
guarantee  for  the  future;  that  at  any  moment,  in 
the  heat  of  passion,  she  might  leave  him  again. 
He  remembered,  too  distinctly,  her  words  on  the 
night  before,  when  he  tried  to  make  her  compre- 
hend his  view  of  the  relation  between  man  and 
wife — "  That  will  not  suit  me,  Hartley."  And  he 
felt  that  she  was  in  earnest ;  that  she  would  resist 
every  effort  he  might  make  to  lead  and  control  as  a 
man  in  certain  things,  just  as  she  had  done  from 
the  beginning. 

In  matrimonial  quarrels  you  cannot  kiss  and 
make  up  again,  as  children  do,  forgetting  all  the 
stormy  past  in  the  sunshiny  present.  And  this 
was  painfully  clear  to  both  Hartley  and  Irene,  as 
she,  alone  in  her  chamber,  and  he,  alone  in  his 
office,  pondered,  on  that  day  of  reconciliation,  the 
past  and  the  future.  Yet  each  resolved  to  be  more 


114  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

forbearing  and  less  exacting ;  to  be  emulous  of  con- 
cession, rather  than  exaction ;  to  let  love,  uniting 
with  reason,  hold  pride  and  self-will  in  close  sub- 
mission. 

Their  meeting,  on  Hartley's  return  home,  at  his 
usual  late  hour  in  the  afternoon,  was  tender,  but 
not  full  of  the  joyous  warmth  of  feeling  that  often 
showed  itself.  Their  hearts  were  not  light  enough 
for  ecstasy.  But  they  were  marked  in  their  atten- 
tions to  each  other,  emulous  of  affectionate  words 
and  actions,  yielding  and  considerate.  And  yet 
this  mutual,  almost  formal,  recognition  of  a  recent 
state  of  painful  antagonism  left  on  each  mind  a 
feeling  of  embarrassment,  checked  words  and  sen- 
tences ere  they  came  to  utterance,  and  threw  amid 
their  pleasant  talks  many  intermittent  pauses. 

Often  through  the  day  had  Mr.  Emerson,  as  he 
dwelt  on  the  unhappy  relation  existing  between 
himself  and  his  wife,  made  up  his  mind  to  renew 
the  subject  of  their  true  position  to  each  other,  as 
briefly  touched  upon  in  their  meeting  of  the  night 
before,  and  as  often  changed  his  purpose,  in  fear  of 
another  rupture.  Yet  to  him  it  seemed  of  the  first 
importance  that  this  matter,  as  a  basis  of  future 
peace,  should  be  settled  between  them,  and  settled 
at  once.  If  he  held  one  view  and  she  another,  and 
both  were  sensitive,  quick-tempered  and  tenacious 
of  individual  freedom,  fierce  antagonism  might 
occur  at  any  moment.  He  had  come  home  inclined 
to  the  affirmative  side  of  the  question,  and  many 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  115 

times  during  the  evening  it  was  on  his  lips  to  intro- 
duce the  subject.  But  he  was  so  sure  that  it  would 
prove  a  theme  of  sharp  discussion,  that  he  had  not 
the  courage  to  risk  the  consequences. 

There  was  peace  again  after  this  conflict,  but  it 
was  not,  by  any  means,  a  hopeful  peace.  It  had 
no  well-considered  basis.  The  causes  which  had 
produced  a  struggle  were  still  in  existence,  and 
liable  to  become  active,  by  provocation,  at  any 
moment.  No  change  had  taken  place  in  the  cha- 
racters, dispositions,  temperaments  or  general  views 
of  life  in  either  of  the  parties.  Strife  had  ceased 
between  them  only  in  consequence  of  the  pain  it 
involved.  A  deep  conviction  of  this  fact  so  sobered 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Emerson,  and  altered,  in  conse- 
quence, his  manner  toward  Irene,  that  she  felt  its 
reserve  and  coldness  as  a  rebuke  that  chilled  the 
warmth  of  her  tender  impulses. 

And  this  manner  did  not  greatly  change  as  the 
days  and  weeks  moved  onward.  Memory  kept  too 
vividly  in  the  mind  of  Emerson  that  one  act,  and 
the  danger  of  its  repetition  on  some  sudden  provo- 
cation. He  could  not  feel  safe  and  at  ease  with  his 
temple  of  peace  built  close  to  a  slumbering  volcano, 
which  was  liable  at  any  moment  to  blaze  forth  and 
bury  its  fair  proportions  in  lava  and  ashes. 

Irene  did  not  comprehend  her  husband's  state  of 
mind.  She  felt  painfully  the  change  in  his  man- 
ner, but  failed  in  reaching  the  true  cause.  Some- 
times she  attributed  his  coldness  to  resentment; 


116  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

sometimes  to  defect  of  love ;  and  sometimes  to  a 
settled  determination  on  his  part  to  inflict  punish- 
ment. Sometimes  she  spent  hours  alone,  weeping 
over  these  sad  ruins  of  her  peace,  and  sometimes, 
in  a  spirit  of  revolt,  she  laid  down  for  herself  a  line 
of  conduct  intended  to  react  against  her  husband. 
But  something  in  his  calm,  kind,  self-reliant  man- 
ner, when  she  looked  into  his  face,  broke  down  her 
purpose.  She  was  afraid  of  throwing  herself 
against  a  rock  which,  while  standing  immovable, 
might  bruise  her  tender  limbs  or  extinguish  life  in 
the  strong  concussion. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 

|OTH  Emerson  and  his  wife  came  up  from 
this  experience  changed  in  themselves  and 
toward  each  other.  A  few  days  had  matured 
them  beyond  what  might  have  been  looked 
for  in  as  many  years.  Life  suddenly  put  on  more 
sober  hues,  and  the  future  laid  off  its  smiles  and 
beckonings  onward  to  greener  fields  and  mountain- 
heights  of  felicity.  There  was  a  certain  air  of 
manly  self-confidence,  a  firmer,  more  deliberate 
way  of  expressing  himself  on  all  subjects,  and  an 
evidence  of  mental  clearness  and  strength,  which 
gave  to  Irene  the  impression  of  power  and  supe- 
riority not  wholly  agreeable  to  her  self-love,  yet 
awakening  emotions  of  pride  in  her  husband  when 
she  contrasted  him  with  other  men.  As  a  man 
among  men,  he  was,  as  he  had  ever  been,  her  beau 
ideal ;  but  as  a  husband,  she  felt  a  daily  increasing 
spirit  of  resistance  and  antagonism,  and  it  required 
constant  watchfulness  over  herself  to  prevent  this 
feeling  from  exhibiting  itself  in  act. 

On  the  part  of  Emerson,  the  more  he  thought 
about  this  subject  of  the  husband's  relative  duties 
and  prerogatives — thought  as  a  man  and  as  a  law- 

117 


118  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

yer — the  more  strongly  did  he  feel  about  it,  and 
the  more  tenacious  of  his  assumed  rights  did  he  be- 
come. Matters  which  seemed  in  the  beginning  of 
such  light  importance  as  scarcely  to  attract  his  at- 
tention, now  loomed  up  before  him  as  things  of 
moment.  Thus,  if  he  spoke  of  their  doing  some 
particular  thing  in  a  certain  way,  and  Irene  sug- 
gested a  different  way,  instead  of  yielding  to  her 
view,  he  would  insist  upon  his  own.  If  she  tried 
to  show  him  a  reason  why  her  way  was  best,  he 
would  give  no  weight  to  her  argument  or  repre- 
sentation. On  the  other  hand,  it  is  but  just  to  say 
that  he  rarely  opposed  her  independent  suggestions 
or  interfered  with  her  freedom ;  and  if  she  had 
been  as  considerate  toward  him,  the  danger  of 
trouble  would  have  been  lessened. 

It  is  the  little  foxes  that  spoil  the  tender  grapes, 
and  so  it  is  the  little  reactions  of  two  spirits  against 
each  other  that  spoil  the  tender  blossoms  of  love 
and  destroy  the  promised  vintage.  Steadily,  day 
by  day,  and  week  by  week,  were  these  light  reac- 
tions raarring  the  happiness  of  our  undisciplined 
young  friends,  and  destroying  in  them  germ  after 
germ,  and  bud  after  bud,  which,  if  left  to  growth 
and  development,  would  have  brought  forth  ripe, 
luscious  fruit  in  the  later  summer  of  their  lives. 
Trifles,  light  as  air  were  noticed,  and  their  import- 
ance magnified.  Words,  looks,  actions,  insignifi- 
cant in  themselves,  were  made  to  represent  states  of 
will  or  antagonism  which  really  had  no  existence. 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  1 1 9 

Unhappily  for  their  peace,  Irene  had  a  brood- 
ing disposition.  She  held  in  her  memory  utter- 
ances and  actions  forgotten  by  her  husband,  and, 
by  dwelling  upon,  magnified  and  gave  them  an  im- 
portance to  which  they  were  not  entitled.  Still 
more  unhappily  for  their  peace,  Irene  met  about 
this  time,  and  became  attached  to,  a  lady  of  fine 
intellectual  attainments  and  fascinating  manners, 
who  was  an  extremist  in  opinion  on  the  subject  of 
sexual  equality.  She  was  married,  but  to  a  man 
greatly  her  inferior,  though  possessing  some  literary 
talent,  which  he  managed  to  turn  to  better  account 
than  she  did  her  finer  powers.  He  had  been  at- 
tracted by  her  brilliant  qualities,  and  in  approach- 
ing her  scorched  his  wings,  and  ever  after  lay  at 
her  feet.  She  had  no  very  high  respect  for  him, 
but  found  a  husband  on  many  accounts  a  conve- 
nient thing,  and  so  held  on  to  the  appendage.  If 
he  had  been  man  enough  to  remain  silent  on  the 
themes  she  was  so  fond  of  discussing  on  all  occa- 
sions, people  of  common  sense  and  common  percep- 
tion would  have  respected  him  for  what  he  was 
worth.  But  he  gloried  in  his  bondage,  and  rattled 
his  chains  as  gleefully  as  if  he  were  discoursing 
sweet  music.  What  she  announced  oracularly,  he 
attempted  to  demonstrate  by  bald  and  feeble  argu- 
ments. He  was  the  false  understanding  to  her 
perverted  will. 

The  name  of  this  lady  was  Mrs.  Talbot.  Irene 
met  her  soon  after  her  marriage  and  removal  to 


120  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

New  York,  and  was  charmed  with  her  from  the 
beginning.  Mr.  Emerson,  on  the  contrary,  liked 
neither  her  nor  her  sentiments,  and  considered  her 
a  dangerous  friend  for  his  wife.  He  expressed 
'himself  freely  in  regard  to  her  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  intimacy ;  but  Irene  took  her  part  so 
warmly,  and  used  such  strong  language  in  her 
favor,  that  Emerson  deemed  it  wisest  not  to  create 
new  sentiments  in  her  favor  out  of  opposition  to 
himself. 

Within  a  week  from  that  memorable  Christmas 
day  on  which  Irene  came  back  from  Ivy  Cliff,  Mrs. 
Talbot,  who  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  spirited,  in- 
dependent, undisciplined  wife  of  Emerson,  called 
in  to  see  her  new  friend.  Irene  received  her  cor- 
dially. She  was,  in  fact,  of  all  her  acquaintances, 
the  one  she  most  desired  to  meet. 

"  I'm  right  glad  you  thought  of  making  me  a 
call,"  said  Mrs.  Emerson,  as  they  sat  down  to- 
gether. "  I've  felt  as  dull  all  the  morning  as  an 
anchorite." 

'•'You  dull!"  Mrs.  Talbot  affected  surprise,  as 
she  glanced  round  the  tasteful  room  in  which  they 
were  sitting.  "  What  is  there  to  cloud  your  mind? 
With  such  a  home  and  such  a  husband  as  you  pos- 
sess life  ought  to  be  one  long,  bright  holiday." 

"  Good  things  in  their  way,"  replied  Mrs.  Emer- 
son. "  But  not  everything." 

She  said  this  in  a  kind  of  thoughtless  deference 
to  Mrs.  Talbot's  known  views  on  the  subject  of 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  121 

homes  and  husbands,  which  she  had  not  hesitated 
to  call  women's  prisons"  and  women's  jailers. 

"  Indeed  !  And  have  you  made  that  discovery?" 
Mrs.  Talbot  laughed  a  low,  gurgling  sort  of  laugh, 
leaning,  at  the  same  time,  in  a  confidential  kind 
of  way,  closer  to  Mrs.  Emerson. 

"  Discovery !" 

"Yes." 

"  It  is  no  discovery,"  said  Mrs.  Emerson.  "The 
fact  is  self-evident.  There  is  much  that  a  woman 
needs  for  happiness  beside  a  home  and  a  husband." 

"  Right,  my  young  friend,  right !"  Mrs.  Tal- 
bot's  manner  grew  earnest.  u  No  truer  words  were 
ever  spoken.  Yes — yes — a  woman  needs  a  great 
deal  more  than  these  to  fill  the  measure  of  her 
happiness  ;  and  it  is  through  the  attempt  to  restrict 
and  limit  her  to  such  poor  substitutes  for  a  world- 
wide range  and  freedom  that  she  has  been  so 
dwarfed  in  mental  stature,  and  made  the  unhappy 
creature  and  slave  of  man's  hard  ambition  and 
indomitable  love  of  power.  There  were  Amazons 
of  old — as  the  early  Greeks  knew  to  their  cost — 
strong,  self-reliant,  courageous  women,  who  ac- 
knowledged no  human  superiority.  Is  the  Ama- 
zonian spirit  dead  in  the  earth  ?  Not  so !  It  is 
alive,  and  clothing  itself  with  will,  power  and  per- 
sistence. Already  it  is  grasping  the  rein,  and  the 
mettled  steed  stands  impatient  to  feel  the  rider's 
impulse  in  the  saddle.  The  cycle  of  woman's 
degradation  and  humiliation  is  completed.  A  new 


122  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

era  in  the  world's  social  history  has  dawned  for 
her,  and  the  mountain-tops  are  golden  with  the 
coming  day." 

Irene  listened  wTith  delight  and  even  enthusiasm 
to  these  sentiments,  uttered  with  ardor  and  elo- 
quence. 

"  It  is  not  woman's  fault,  taking  her  in  the  ag- 
gregate, that  she  is  so  weak  in  body  and  mind,  and 
such  a  passive  slave  to  man's  will,"  continued  Mrs. 
Talbot.  "  In  the  retrocession  of  races  toward  bar- 
barism mere  muscle,  in  which  alone  man  is  su- 
perior to  woman,  prevailed.  Physical  strength  set 
itself  up  as  master.  Might  made  right.  And  so 
unhappy  woman  was  degraded  below  man,  and 
held  to  the  earth,  until  nearly  all  independent  life 
has  been  crushed  out  of  her.  As  civilization  has 
lifted  nation  after  nation  out  of  the  dark  depths  of 
barbarism,  the  condition  of  woman  physically  has 
been  improved.  For  the  sake  of  his  children,  if 
from  no  better  motive,  man  has  come  to  treat  his 
wife  with  a  more  considerate  kindness.  If  she  is 
still  but  the  hewer  of  his  wood  and  the  drawer  of 
his  water,  he  has,  in  many  cases,  elevated  her  to 
the  position  of  dictatress  in  these  humble  affairs. 
He  allows  her  '  help !'  But,  mentally  and  socially, 
he  continues  to  degrade  her.  In  law  she  is  scarcely 
recognized,  except  as  a  criminal.  She  is  punished 
if  she  does  wrong,  but  has  no  legal  protection  in 
her  rights  as  an  independent  human  being.  She  is 
only  man's  shadow.  The  public  opinion  that  affects 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  123 

her  is  made  by  him.  The  earliest  literature  of  a 
country  is  mail's  expression ;  and  in  this  man's 
view  of  woman  is  always  apparent.  The  senti- 
ment is  repeated  generation  after  generation,  and 
age  after  age,  until  the  barbarous  idea  comes  down, 
scarcely  questioned,  to  the  days  of  high  civiliza- 
tion, culture  and  refinement. 

"  Here,  my  young  friend,  you  have  the  simple 
story  of  woman's  degradation  in  this  age  of  the 
world.  Now,  so  long  as  she  submits,  man  will 
hold  her  in  fetters.  Power  and  dominion  are  sweet. 
If  a  man  cannot  govern  a  state,  he  will  be  content 
to  govern  a  household — but  govern  he  will,  if  he 
can  find  anywhere  submissive  subjects." 

"  He  is  born  a  tyrant;  that  I  have  always  felt," 
said  Mrs.  Emerson.  "  You  see  it  in  a  family  of 
sisters  and  brothers.  The  boys  always  attempt  to 
rule  their  sisters,  and  if  the  latter  do  not  submit, 
then  comes  discord  and  contention." 

"  I  have  seen  this  in  hundreds  of  instances,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Talbot.  "  It  was  fully  illustrated  in 
my  own  case.  I  had  two  brothers,  who  undertook 
to  exercise  their  love  of  domineering  on  me.  But 
they  did  not  find  a  passive  subject — no,  not  by  any 
means.  I  was  never  obedient  to  their  will,  for  I 
had  one  of  my  own.  We  made  the  house  often  a 
bedlam  for  our  poor  mother ;  but  I  never  gave  way 
• — no,  not  for  an  instant,  come  what  might.  I  had 
different  stuff  in  me  from  that  of  common  girls, 
and  in  time  the  boys  were  glad  to  let  me  alone." 


124  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

•'Are  your  brothers  living?"  asked  Mrs. 
Emerson. 

"  Yes.  One  resides  in  New  York,  and  the  other 
in  Boston.  One  is  a  merchant,  the  other  a  phy- 
sician." 

"  How  was  it  as  you  grew  older  ?" 

"  About  the  same.  They  are  like  nearly  all  men 
— despisers  of  woman's  intellect." 

Irene  sighed,  and,  letting  her  eyes  fall  to  the 
floor,  sat  lost  in  thought  for  some  moments.  The 
suggestions  of  her  friend  were  not  producing 
agreeable  states  of  mind. 

"  They  reject  the  doctrine  of  an  equality  in  the 
sexes?"  said  Mrs.  Emerson. 

"  Of  course.  All  men  do  that,"  replied  Mrs. 
Talbot. 

"  Your  husband  among  the  rest  ?" 

"Talbot?  Oh,  he's  well  enough  in  his  way!" 
The  lady  spoke  lightly,  tossing  her  head  in  a  man- 
ner that  involved  both  indifference  and  contempt. 
"  I  never  take  him  into  account  when  discussing 
these  matters.  That  point  was  settled  between  us 
long  and  long  ago.  We  jog  on  without  trouble. 
Talbot  thinks  as  I  do  about  the  women — or  pre- 
tends that  he  does,  which  is  all  the  same." 

"A  rare  exception  to  the  general  run  of  hus- 
bands," said  Irene,  thinking  at  the  same  time  how 
immeasurably  superior  Mr.  Emerson  was  to  this 
weakling,  and  despising  him  in  her  heart  for  sub- 
mitting to  be  ruled  by  a  woman.  Thus  nature  and 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  125 

true  perception  spoke  in  her,  even  while  she  was 
seeking  to  blind  herself  by  false  reasonings. 

"  Yes,  he's  a  rare  exception  ;  and  it's  well  for  us 
both  that  it  is  so.  If  he  were  like  your  husband, 
for  instance,  one  of  us  would  have  been  before  the 
legislature  for  a  divorce  within  twelve  months  of 
our  marriage  night." 

"  Like  my  husband  !  What  do  you  mean  ?" 
Mrs.  Emerson  drew  herself  up,  with  half  real  and 
half  affected  surprise. 

"  Oh,  he's  one  of  your  men  who  have  positive 
|ualities  about  them — strong  in  intellect  and  will." 

Irene  felt  pleased  with  the  compliment  bestoMred 
upon  her  husband. 

"  But  wrong  in  his  ideas  of  woman." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  asked  Irene. 

"How  do  I  know?  As  I  know  all  men  with 
whom  I  come  in  contact.  I  probe  them." 

"  And  you  have  probed  my  husband  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"  And  do  not  regard  him  as  sound  on  this  sub- 
ject?" 

"  No  sounder  than  other  men  of  his  class.  He 
regards  woman  as  man's  inferior." 

"  I  think  you  state  the  case  too  strongly,"  said 
Mrs.  Emerson,  a  red  spot  burning  on  her  cheek. 
"  He  thinks  them  mentally  different." 

"  Of  course  he  does." 

"  But  not  different  as  to  superiority  and  inferior- 
ity," replied  Irene. 


12G  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

"  Mere  hair-splitting,  my  child.  If  they  aro 
mentally  different,  one  must  be  more  highly  organ- 
ized than  the  other,  and  of  coarse,  superior.  Mr. 
Emerson  thinks  a  man's  rational  powers  stronger 
than  a  woman's,  and  that,  therefore,  he  must  direct 
in  affairs  generally,  and  she  follow  his  lead.  I 
know;  I've  talked  with  and  drawn  him  out  on 
this  subject." 

Mrs.  Emerson  sighed  again  faintly,  while  her 
eyes  dropped  from  the  face  of  her  visitor  and  sunk 
to  the  floor.  A  shadow  was  falling  on  her  spirit — • 
a  weight  coming  down  with  a  gradually  increasing 
pressure  upon  her  heart.  She  remembered  the 
night  of  her  return  from  Ivy  Cliff  and  the  lan- 
guage then  used  by  her  husband  on  this  very  sub- 
ject, which  was  mainly  in  agreement  with  the  range 
of  opinions  attributed  to  him  by  Mrs.  Talbot. 

"  Marriage,  to  a  spirited  woman,"  she  remarked, 
in  a  pensive  undertone,  "  is  a  doubtful  experiment." 

"Always,"  returned  her  friend.  "As  woman 
stands  now  in  the  estimate  of  man,  her  chances  for 
happiness  are  almost  wholly  on  the  side  of  old- 
maidisin.  Still,  freedom  is  the  price  of  struggle 
and  combat;  and  woman  will  first  have  to  show, 
in  actual  strife,  that  she  is  the  equal  of  her  present 
lord." 

"  Then  you  would  turn  every  home  into  a  battle- 
field?" said  Mrs.  Emerson. 

"  Every  home  in  which  there  is  a  tyrant  and  an 
oppressor,"  was  the  prompt  answer.  "  Many  fair 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  127 

lands,  in  all  ages,  have  been  trampled  down  ruth- 
lessly by  the  iron  feet  of  war ;  and  that  were  better; 
as  the  price  of  freedom,  than  slavery." 

Irene  sighed  again,  and  was  again  silent. 

"  What,"  she  asked,  "  if  the  oppressor  is  so  much 
stronger  than  the  oppressed  that  successful  resist- 
ance is  impossible?  that  with  every  struggle  the 
links  of  the  chain  that  binds  her  sink  deeper  into 
her  quivering  flesh  ?" 

"  Every  age  and  every  land  have  seen  noble 
martyrs  in  the  cause  of  freedom.  It  is  better  to 
die  for  liberty  than  live  an  ignoble  slave,"  answered 
the  tempter. 

"And  I  will  die  a  free  woman."  This  Irene 
said  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IN  BONDS. 

.ENTIMENTS  like  these,  coming  to  Irene  aa 
-y»*  they  did  while  she  was  yet  chafing  under  a 
' "  recent  collision  with  her  husband,  and  while 
the  question  of  submission  was  yet  an  open 
one,  were  near  proving  a  quick-match  to  a  slum- 
bering mine  in  her  spirit,  and  had  not  her  husband 
been  in  a  more  passive  state  than  usual,  there  might 
have  been  an  explosion  which  would  have  driven 
them  asunder  with  such  terrific  force  that  reunion 
must  have  been  next  to  impossible. 

It  would  have  been  well  if  their  effects  had  died 
with  the  passing  away  of  that  immediate  danger. 
But  as  we  think  so  we  incline  to  act.  Our  senti- 
ments are  our  governors ;  and  of  all  imperious 
tyrants,  false  sentiments  are  the  most  ruthless. 
The  beautiful,  the  true,  the  good  they  trample  out 
of  the  heart  with  a  fiery  malignity  that  knows  no 
touch  of  pity ;  for  the  false  is  the  bitter  enemy  of 
the  true  and  makes  with  it  no  terms  of  amity. 

The  coldness  which  had  followed  their  reconcili- 
ation might  have  gradually  given  way  before  the 
warmth  of  genuine  love,  if  Irene  had  been  left  to 
the  counsels  of  her  own  heart ;  if  there  had  beea 

128 


*#  BONDS.  129 

no  enemy  to  her  peace,  like  Mrs.  Talbot,  to  throw 
in  wild,  vague  thoughts  of  oppression  and  freedom 
among  the  half-developed  opinions  which  were 
forming  in  her  mind.  As  it  was,  a  jealous  scru- 
tiny of  words  and  actions  took  the  place  of  that 
tender  confidence  which  was  coming  back  to  Irene's 
heart,  and  she  became  watchfully  on  the  alert ;  not, 
as  she  might  have  been,  lovingly  ministrant. 

Only  a  few  days  were  permitted  to  elapse  after 
the  call  of  this  unsafe  friend  before  Irene  returned 
the  visit,  and  spent  two  hours  with  her,  conning 
over  the  subject  of  woman's  rights  and  woman's 
wrongs.  Mrs.  Talbot  introduced  her  to  writers  on 
the  vexed  question,  who  had  touched  the  theme 
with  argument,  sarcasm,  invective  and  bold,  bril- 
liant, specious  generalities ;  read  to  her  from  their 
books  ;  commented  on  their  deductions,  and  uttered 
sentiments  on  the  subject  of  reform  and  resistance 
as  radical  as  the  most  extreme. 

"  We  must  agitate — we  must  act — we  must  do 
good  deeds  of  valor  and  self-sacrifice  for  our  sex,"' 
she  said,  in  her  enthusiastic  way.  "  Every  woman, 
whether  of  high  or  low  condition,  of  humble  pow- 
ers or  vigorous  intellect,  has  a  duty  to  perform,  and 
she  is  false  to  the  honor  and  rights  of  her  sex  if 
she  do  not  array  herself  on  the  side  of  freedom. 
You  have  great  responsibilities  resting  upon  you, 
my  young  friend.  I  say  it  soberly,  even  solemnly. 
Responsibilities  which  may  not  be  disregarded 
without  evil  consequences  to  yourself  and  others. 


130  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

You  are  young,  clear-thoughted  and  resolute — 
have  will,  purpose  and  endurance.  You  are  mar- 
ried to  a  young  man  destined,  I  think,  to  make  his 
mark  in  the  world ;  but,  as  I  have  said  before,  a 
false  education  has  given  him  erroneous  ideas  on 
this  great  and  important  subject.  Now  what  is 
your  duty  ?" 

The  lady  paused  as  if  for  an  answer. 

"  What  is  your  duty,  my  dear  young  friend  ?" 
she  repeated. 

"  I  will  answer  for  you,"  she  continued.  "  Your 
duty  is  to  be  true  to  yourself  and  to  your  sisters  in 
bonds." 

"  In  bonds  !  /  in  bonds  !"  Mrs.  Talbot  touched 
her  to  the  quick. 

"Are  you  a  free  woman?"  The  inquiry  was 
calmly  made. 

Irene  started  to  the  floor  and  moved  across  the 
room,  then  turned  and  came  back  again.  Her 
checks  burned  and  her  eyes  flashed.  She  stood 
before  Mrs.  Talbot  and  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"  The  question  has  disturbed  you  ?"  said  the  lady. 

"  It  has,"  was  the  brief  answer. 

"  Why  should  it  disturb  you  ?' 

Irene  did  not  answer. 

"  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Say  on." 

"  You  are  in  bonds,  and  feel  the  fetters." 

"  Mrs.  Talbot !" 

"  It  is  so,  my  poor  child,  and  you  know  it  as 


IN  BONDS.  131 

well  as  I  do.  From  the  beginning  of  our  acquaint- 
ance I  have  seen  this ;  and  more  than  once,  in  our 
various  conversations,  you  have  admitted  the  fact." 

"  I  ?" 

"  Yes,  you." 

Irene  let  her  thoughts  run  back  through  the  sen- 
timents and  opinions  which  she  had  permitted  her- 
self to  utter  in  the  presence  of  her  friend,  to  see  if 
she  had  so  fully  betrayed  herself.  She  could  not 
recall  the  distinct  language,  but  it  was  plain  that 
Mrs.  Talbot  had  her  secret,  and  therefore  reserve 
on  the  subject  was  useless. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  standing  for  some  time 
before  Mrs.  Talbot,  "  if  I  am  in  bonds,  it  is  not 
because  I  do  not  worship  freedom." 

"  I  know  that,"  was  the  quickly-spoken  answer. 
"  And  it  is  because  I  wish  to  see  you  a  free  wonjan 
that  I  point  to  your  bonds.  Now  is  the  time  to 
break  thefn — now,  before  years  have  increased  their 
strength — now,  before  habit  has  made  tyranny  a 
part  of  your  husband's  nature.  He  is  your  ruler, 
because  the  social  senfiment  is  in  favor  of  manly 
domination.  There  is  hope  for  you  now,  and  now 
only.  You  must  begin  the  work  of  reaction  while 
both  are  young.  Let  your  husband  understand, 
from  this  time,  that  you  are  his  equal.  It  may  go 
a  little  hard  at  first.  He  will,  without  doubt,  hold 
on  to  the  reins,  for  power  is  sweet ;  but  if  tbt-re  be 
true  love  for  you  in  his  heart,  he  will  yield  in  the 
struggle,  and  make  you  his  companion  and  equal, 


132  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

as  you  should  be.  If  his  love  be  not  genuine, 
why—" 

She  checked  herself.  It  might  be  going  a  step 
too  far  with  her  young  friend  to  utter  the  thought 
that  was  coming  to  her  lips.  Irene  did  not  ques- 
tion her  as  to  what  more  she  was  about  to  say. 
There  was  stimulus  enough  in  the  words  already 
spoken.  She  felt  all  the  strength  of  her  nature 
rising  into  opposition. 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  free,"  she  said  in  her  heart.  "  I 
will  be  his  equal,  not  his  slave." 

"  It  may  cost  you  some  pain  in  the  beginning," 
resumed  the  tempter. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  pain,"  said  Irene. 

"  A  brave  heart  spoke  there.  I  wish  we  had 
more  on  our  side  with  the  stuff  you  are  made  of. 
There  would  be  hope  of  a  speedier  reform  than  is 
now  promised." 

"Heaven  send  the  reform  right  early!  It  can- 
not come  a  day  too  soon."  Irene  spoke  with  rising 
ardor. 

"  It  will  be  our  own  fault,"  said  Mrs.  Talbot, 
"  if  we  longer  bow  our  necks  to  the  yoke  or  move 
obedient  to  our  task-masters.  Let  us  lay  the  axe 
to  the  very  root  of  this  evil  and  hew  it  down." 

"  Even  if  we  are  crushed  by  the  tree  in  falling," 
responded  Irene,  in  the  spirit  of  a  martyr. 

From  this  interview  our  wrong-directed  young 
friend  went  home  with  more  clearly  defined  pur- 
poses touching  her  conduct  toward  her  husbaud 


IN  BONDS.  133 

than  she  had  hitherto  entertained.  She  saw  him 
in  a  new  aspect,  and  in  a  character  more  definitely 
outlined.  He  loomed  up  in  more  colossal  propor- 
tions, and  put  on  sterner  features.  All  disguises 
were  thrown  away,  and  he  stood  forth,  not  a  lov- 
ing husband,  but  the  tyrant  of  her  home.  Weak, 
jealous,  passion-tost  child !  how  this  strong,  sel£- 
willed,  false  woman  of  the  world  had  bewildered 
her  thoughts,  and  pushed  her  forth  into  an  arena 
of  strife,  where  she  could  only  beat  about  blindly, 
and  hurt  herself  and  others,  yet  accomplish  no 
good. 

From  her  interview  with  Mrs.  Talbot,  Irene 
went  home,  bearing  more  distinct  ideas  of  resist- 
ance in  her  mind.  In  this  great  crisis  of  her  life 
she  felt  that  she  needed  just  such  a  friend,  who 
could  give  direction  to  her  striving  spirit,  and 
clothe  for  her  in  thoughts  the  native  impulses  that 
she  knew  only  as  a  love  of  freedom.  Sho  believed 
now  that  she  understood  herself  better  than  before, 
and  comprehended  more  clearly  her  duties  and 
responsibilities. 

It  was  in  this  mood  of  mind  that  she  met  her 
husband  when  he  returned  in  the  afternoon  from 
his  office.  Happily  for  them,  he  was  in  a  quiet, 
non-resistant  state,  and  in  a  special  good-humor 
with  himself  and  the  world.  Professional  matter? 
had  shaped  themselves  to  his  wishes,  and  left  hL 
mind  at  peace.  Irene  had,  in  consequence,  every- 
thing pretty  much  her  own  way.  Hartley  did  not 


134  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

fail  to  notice  a  certain  sharpness  of  manner  about 
her,  and  a  certain  spiciness  of  sentiment  when  the 
subject  of  their  intermittent  talks  verged  on  themes 
relating  to  women  ;  but  he  felt  no  inclination  what- 
ever for  argument  or  opposition,  and  so  hei> arrows 
struck  a  polished  shield,  and  went  gracefully  and 
harmlessly  aside. 

"  Shall  we  go  and  have  a  merry  laugh  with  Mat- 
thews to-night  ?"  said  Hartley,  as  they  sat  at  the 
tea-table.  "  I  feel  just  in  the  humor." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  replied  Irene,  curtly.  "  I 
don't  incline  to  the  laughing  mood,  just  now." 

"  Laughing  is  contagious,"  suggested  Hartley. 

"  I  shall  not  take  the  infection  to-night."  And 
ehe  balanced  her  little  head  with  the  perpendicu- 
larity of  a  plumb-line. 

"  Can't  I  persuade  you  ?''  He  was  in  a  real 
good-humor,  and  smiled  as  he  said  this. 

t{  No,  sir.  You  may  wraive  both  argument  and 
persuasion.  I  am  in  earnest." 

"  And  when  a  woman  is  in  earnest  you  might  as 
well  essay  to  move  the  Pillars  of  Hercules." 

"You  might  as  well  in  my  case,"  answered 
Irene,  without  any  softening  of  tone  or  features. 

"  Then  I  shall  not  attempt,  after  a  hard  day's 
work,  a  task  so  difficult.  I  am  in  a  mood  for  resk 
and  quiet,"  said  the  young  husband. 

'f  Perhaps,"  he  resumed,  after  a  little  pause, 
"  you  may  feel  somewhat  musical.  There  is  to  l>e 
a  vocal  and  instrumental  concert  to-night.  What 


IN  BONDS.  135 

say  you  fo  going-  there?  I  think  I  could  enjoy 
some  good  ainging,  mightily." 

Irene  closed  her  lips  firmly,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  musically  inclined  this  evening  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied. 

"  Got  a  regular  stay-at-home  feeling?" 

"Yes." 

"  Enough,"  said  Hartley,  with  unshadowed  good- 
humor,  "  \ve  will  stay  at  home." 

And  he  sung  a  snatch  of  the  familiar  song — 
"  There's  no  place  like  home,"  rising,  as  he  did  so, 
from  the  table,  and  offering  Irene  his  arm.  She 
could  do  no  less  than  accept  the  courtesy,  and  so 
they  went  up  to  their  cozy  sitting-room  arm-in- 
arm— he  chatty,  and  she  almost  silent. 

"  What's  the  matter,  petty  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  fond 
way,  after  trying  for  some  time,  but  in  vain,  td 
draw  her  out  into  pleasant  conversation.  "  Ain't 
you  well  to-night  ?" 

Now,  so  far  as  her  bodily  state  was  concerned, 
Irene  never  felt  better  in  her  life.  So  she  could 
not  plead  indisposition. 

"  I  feel  well,"  she  replied,  glancing  up  into  her 
husband's  face  in  a  cold,  embarrassed  kind  of  way. 

"  Then  your  looks  belie  your  condition — that's 
all.  If  it  isn't  the  body,  it  must  be  the  mind. 
What's  gone  wrong,  darling?" 

The  tenderness  in  Hartley's  tones  was  genuine, 
and  the  heart  of  Irene  leaped  to  his  voice  with  a 
responsive  throe.  But  was  he  not  her  master  and 


136  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

tyrant?  How  that  thought  chilled  the  sweet 
impulse ! 

"  Nothing  wrong,"  she  answered,  with  a  sadness 
of  tone  which  she  was  unable  to  conceal.  "  But  I 
feel  dull,  and  cannot  help  it." 

"You  should  have  gone  with  me  to  laugh  with 
Matthews.  He  would  have  shaken  all  these  cob- 
webs from  your  brain.  Come!  it  is  not  yet  too 
late." 

But  the  rebel  spirit  was  in  her  heart ;  and  to 
have  acceded  to  her  husband's  wishes  would  have 
been  to  submit  herself  to  control. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,"  she  replied.  "  I  feel 
as  if  home  were  the  better  place  for  me  to-night." 

An  impatient  answer  was  on  her  tongue;  hut 
she  checked  its  utterance,  and  spoke  from  a  better 
spirit. 

Not  even  as  a  lover  had  Hartley  shown  more 
considerate  tenderness  than  marked  all  his  conduct 
toward  Irene  this  evening.  His  mind  was  in  a 
clear-seeing  region,  and  his  feelings  tranquil.  The 
sphere  of  her  antagonism  failed  to  reach  him.  He 
did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  her  opposition 
to  his  wishes,  and  so  pride,  self-love  and  self-will 
remained  quiescent.  How  peacefully  unconscious 
was  he  of  the  fact  that  his  feet  were  standing  over 
a  mine,  and  that  a  single  spark  of  passion  struck 
from  him  would  have  sprung  that  mine  in  fierce 
explosion  !  He  read  to  Irene  from  a  volume  which 
he  knew  to  be  a  favorite ;  talked  to  her  about  Ivy 


IN  BONDS.  137 

Cliff  and  her  father ;  suggested  an  early  visit  to 
the  pleasant  old  river  home;  and  thus  charmed 
away  the  evil  spirits  which  had  found  a  lodgment 
in  her  bosom. 

But  how  different  it  might  have  been ! 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE  REFORMERS. 

>OCIAL  theories  that  favor  our  passions,  pe- 
-,-.  culiarities,  defects  of  character  or  weaknesses 

'  "  are  readily  adopted,  and,  with  minds  of  an 
ardent  temper,  often  become  hobbies.  There 
is  a  class  of  persons  who  are  never  content  with 
riding  their  own  hobbies ;  they  must  have  others 
mount  with  them.  All  the  world  is  going  wrong 
because  it  moves  past  them — trotting,  pacing  or 
galloping,  as  it  may  be,  upon  its  own  hobbies. 
And  so  they  try  to  arrest  this  movement  or  that, 
or,  gathering  a  company  of  aimless  people,  they 
galvanize  them  with  their  own  wild  purposes,  and 
start  them  forth  into  the  world  on  Quixotic  er- 
rands. 

These  persons  are  never  content  to  wait  for  tne 
slow  changes  that  are  included  in  all  orderly  devel- 
opments. Because  a  thing  seems  right  to  them  in 
the  abstract,  it  must  be  done  now.  They  cannot 
wait  for  old  things  to  pass  away,  as  preliminary  to 
the  inauguration  of  what  is  new. 

"  If  I  had  the  power,"  we  have  heard  one  of  this 
class  say,  "  evil  and  sorrow  and  pain  should  cease 
from  the  earth  in  a  moment."  And  in  saying  this 


THE  REFORMERS.  139 

the  thought  was  not  concealed  that  God  had  this 
power,  but  failed  to  exercise  it.  With  them  no 
questions  of  expediency,  no  regard  for  time-en- 
dowed prejudices,  no  weak  spirit  of  waiting,  no 
looking  for  the  fullness  of  time  could  have  any 
influence.  What  they  willed  to  be  done  must  be 
done  now ;  and  they  were  impatient  and  angry  at 
every  one  who  stood  in  their  way  or  opposed  their 
theories. 

In  most  cases,  you  will  find  these  "  reformers," 
as  they  generally  style  themselves,  governed  more 
by  a  love  of  ruling  and  influencing  others  than  by 
a  spirit  of  humanity.  They  are  one-sided  people, 
and  can  only  see  one  side  of  a  subject  in  clear  light. 
It  matters  little  to  them  what  is  destroyed,  so  that 
they  can  build.  If  they  possess  the  gift  of  lan- 
guage, either  as  writers  or  talkers — have  wit,  bril- 
liancy and  sarcasm — they  make  disciples  of  the  less 
gifted,  and  influence  larger  or  smaller  circles  of  men 
and  women.  Flattered  by  this  homage  to  their 
talents,  they  grow  more  ardent  in  the  cause  which 
they  have  espoused,  and  see,  or  affect  to  see,  little 
else  of  any  importance  in  the  world.  They  do 
some  good  and  much  harm.  Good,  in  drawing 
general  attention  to  social  evils  that  need  reform- 
ing— evil,  in  causing  weak  people  to  forget  common 
duties  in  their  ambition  to  set  the  world  right. 

There  is  always  danger  in  breaking  suddenly 
away  from  the  regular  progression  of  things  and 
taking  the  lead  in  some  new  and  antagonistic  move- 


140  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

ment.  Such  things  must  and  will  be;  but  they 
who  set  up  for  social  reformers  must  be  men  and 
women  of  pure  hearts,  clear  minds  and  the  broadest 
human  sympathies.  They  must  be  lovers  of  their 
kind,  not  lovers  of  themselves ;  brave  as  patriots, 
not  as  soldiers  of  fortune  who  seek  for  booty  and 
renown. 

Not  many  of  these  true  reformers — all  honor  to 
them ! — are  found  among  the  noisy  coteries  that 
infest  the  land  and  turn  so  many  foolish  people 
away  from  real  duties. 

One  of  the  dangers  attendant  on  association  with 
the  class  to  which  we  refer  lies  in  the  fact  that  they 
draw  around  them  certain  free-thinking,  sensual 
personages,  of  no  very  stable  morality,  who  are 
ready  for  anything  that  'gives  excitement  to  their 
morbid  conditions  of  mind.  Social  disasters,  of 
the  saddest  kind,  are  constantly  occurring  through 
this  cause.  Men  and  women  become  at  first  un- 
settled in  their  opinions,  then  unsettled  in  their 
conduct,  and  finally  throw  off  all  virtuous  restraint. 

Mrs.  Talbot,  the  new  friend  of  Mrs.  Emerson, 
belonged  to  the  better  sort  of  reformers  in  one 
respect.  She  was  a  pure-minded  woman ;  but  this 
did  not  keep  her  out  of  the  circle  of  those  who  were 
of  freer  thought  and  action.  Being  an  extremist 
on  the  subject  of  woman's  social  position,  she  met 
and  assimilated  with  others  on  the  basis  of  a  com- 
mon sentiment.  This  threw  her  in  contact  with 
many  from  whom  she  would  have  shrunk  with 


THE  REFOEMEBS.  141 

instinctive  aversion  had  she  Known  their  true 
quality.  Still,  the  evil  to  her  was  a  gradual  wear- 
ing away,  by  the  power  of  steady  attrition,  of  old, 
true,  conservative  ideas  in  regard  to  the  binding 
force  of  marriage.  There  was  always  a  great  deal 
said  on  this  subject,  in  a  light  way,  by  persons  for 
whose  opinions  on  other  subjects  she  had  the  highest 
respect,  and  this  had  its  influence.  Insensibly  her 
views  and  feelings  changed,  until  she  found  herself, 
in  some  cases,  the  advocate  of  sentiments  that  once 
would  have  been  rejected  with  instinctive  repug- 
nance.' 

This  was  the  woman  who  was  about  acquiring  a 
strong  influence  over  the  undisciplined,  self-willed 
and  too  self-reliant  young  wife  of  Hartley  Emer- 
son ;  and  this  was  the  class  of  personages  among 
whom  her  dangerous  friend  was  about  introducing 
her.  At  the  house  of  Mrs.  Talbot,  where  Irene 
became  a  frequent  visitor,  she  met  a  great  many 
brilliant,  talented  and  fascinating  people,  of  whom 
she  often  spoke  to  her  husband,  for  she  was  too 
independent  to  have  any  concealments.  She  knew 
that  he  did  not  like  Mrs.  Talbot,  but  this  rather 
inclined  her  to  a  favorable  estimation,  and  really 
led  to  a  more  frequent  intercourse  than  would 
otherwise  have  been  the  case. 

Once  a  week  Mrs.  Talbot  held  a  kind  of  conver- 
sazione, at  which  brilliant  people  and  people  with 
hobbies  met  to  hear  themselves  talk.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Emerson  had  a  standing  invitation  to  be  pres- 


142  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

ent  at  these  reunions,  and,  as  Irene  wished  to  go, 
her  husband  saw  it  best  not  to  interpose  obstacles. 
Besides,  as  he  knew  that  she  went  to  Mrs.  Talbot's 
often  in  the  day-time,  and  met  a  good  many  people 
there,  he  wished  to  see  for  himself  who  they  were, 
and  judge  for  himself  as  to  their  quality.  Of  the 
men  who  frequented  the  parlors  of  Mrs.  Talbot, 
the  larger  number  had  some  prefix  to  their  names, 
as  Professor,  Doctor,  Major,  or  Colonel.  Most  of 
the  ladies  were  of  a  decidedly  literary  turn — some 
had  written  books,  some  were  magazine  contrib- 
utors, one  was  a  physician,  and  one  a  public  lec- 
turer. Nothing  against  them  in  all  this,  but  much 
to  their  honor  if  their  talents  and  acquirements 
were  used  for  the  common  good. 

The  themes  of  conversation  at  these  weekly  gath- 
erings were  varied,  but  social  relations  and  social 
reform  were  in  most  cases  the  leading  topics.  Two 
or  three  evenings  at  Mrs.  Talbot's  were  enough  to 
satisfy  Mr.  Emerson  that  the  people  who  met  there 
were  not  of  a  character  to  exercise  a  good  influence 
upon  his  wife.  But  how  was  he  to  keep  her  from 
associations  that  evidently  presented  strong  attrac- 
tions ?  Direct  opposition  he  feared  to  make,  for  the 
experience  of  a  few  months  had  been  sufficient  to 
show  him  that  she  would  resist  all  attempts  on  his 
part  to  exercise  a  controlling  influence. 

He  tried  at  first  to  keep  her  away  by  feigning 
slight  indisposition,  or  weariness,  or  disinclination 
to  go  out,  and  so  lead  her  to  exercise  some  self- 


THE  REFORMERS.  14,'3 

denial  for  his  sake.  But  her  mind  was  too  firmly 
bent  on  going  to  be  turned  so  easily  from  its  pur- 
pose ;  she  did  not  consider  trifles  like  these  of  suffi- 
cient importance  to  interfere  with  the  pleasures  of 
an  evening  at  one  of  Mrs.  Talbot's  conversaziones. 
Mr.  Emerson  felt  hurt  at  his  wife's  plain  disregard 
of  his  comfort  and  wishes,  and  said  within  himself, 
with  bitterness  of  feeling,  that  she  was  heartless. 

One  day,  at  dinner-time,  he  said  to  her — 

"  I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  to  Mrs.  Talbot's  to- 
night." 

"  Why  ?"  Irene  looked  at  her  husband  in  sur- 
prise, and  with  a  shade  of  disappointment  on  her 
countenance. 

"  I  have  business  of  importance  with  a  gentleman 
who  resides  in  Brooklyn,  and  have  promised  to 
meet  him  at  his  house  this  evening." 

"  You  might  call  for  me  on  your  return,"  said 
Irene. 

"  The  time  of  my  return  will  be  uncertain.  I 
cannot  now  tell  how  late  I  may  be  detained  in 
Brooklyn." 

"  I'm  sorry."  And  Irene  bent  down  her  eyes  in 
a  thoughtful  way.  "  I  promised  Mrs.  Talbot  to  be 
there  to-night,"  she  added. 

"  Mrs.  Talbot  will  excuse  you  when  she  knows 
why  you  were  absent." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Irene. 

"  She  must  be  a  very  unreasonable  woman,"  re- 
marked Emerson. 


144  AFTER  THE  STORM 

"  That  doesn't  follow.  You  could  take  me  there, 
and  Mrs.  Talbot  find  me  an  escort  home." 

"  Who  ?"  Emerson  knit  his  brows  and  glanced 
sharply  at  his  wife.  The  suggestion  struck  him 
unpleasantly. 

"  Major  Willard,  for  instance;"  and  she  smiled  in 
a  half-amused,  half-mischievous  way. 

"  You  cannot  be  in  earnest,  surely  ?"  said  Em- 
erson. 

"Why  not?"  queried  his  wife,  looking  at  her 
husband  with  calm,  searching  eyes. 

"  You  would  not,  in  the  first  place,  be  present 
there,  unaccompanied  by  your  husband  ;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  I  hardly  think  my  wife  would  be  seen 
in  the  street,  at  night,  on  the  arm  of  Major  Wil- 
lard." 

Mr.  Emerson  spoke  like  a  man  who  was  in 
earnest. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  wrong  of  Major  Wil- 
lard ?"  asked  Irene. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  him,  right  or  wrong," 
was  replied.  "  But,  if  I  have  any  skill  in  reading 
men,  he  is  very  far  from  being  a  fine  specimen." 

"  Why,  Hartley!  You  have  let  some  prejudice 
come  in  to  warp  your  estimation." 

"  No.  I  have  mixed  some  with  men,  and,  though 
my  opportunity  for  observation  has  not  been  large, 
I  have  met  two  or  three  of  your  Major  Willards. 
They  are  polished  and  attractive  on  the  surface,  but 
unprincipled  and  corrupt." 


THE  REFORMERS.  145 

"  I  cannot  believe  this  of  Major  Willard,"  said 
Irene. 

"  It  might  be  safer  for  you  to  believe  it,"  replied 
Hartley. 

"  Safer !  I  don't  understand  you  !  You  talk 
in  riddles  ?  How  safer  ?" 

Irene  showed  some  irritation. 

"Safer  as  to  your  good  name/'  replied  her 
husband. 

"  My  good  name  is  in  my  own  keeping,"  said 
the  young  wife,  proudly. 

"  Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,  remain  its  safe  cus- 
todian," replied  Emerson.  "Don't  let  even  the 
shadow  of  a  man  like  Major  Willard  fall  upon  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  prejudiced,"  said 
Irene,  coldly ;  "  and  sorry,  still  further,  that  you 
have  so  poor  an  opinion  of  your  wife." 

"You  misapprehend  me,"  returned  Hartley. 
"  I  am  neither  prejudiced  nor  suspicious.  But  see- 
ing danger  in  your  way,  as  a  prudent  man  I  lift  a 
voice  of  warning.  I  am  out  in  the  world  more 
than  you  are,  and  see  more  of  its  worst  side.  My 
profession  naturally  opens  to  me  doors  of  observa- 
tion that  are  shut  to  many.  I  see  the  inside  of 
character,  where  others  look  only  upon  the  fair 
outside." 

"  And  so  learn  to  be  suspicious  of  everybody," 
gaid  Irene. 

"  No ;  only  to  read  indices  that  to  many  others 
are  unintelligible." 


146  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  I  must  learn  to  read  them  also." 

"  It  would  be  well  if  your  sex  and  place  in  the 
WO/ld  gave  the  right  opportunity,"  replied  Hartley. 

"  Truly  said.  And  that  touches  the  main  ques- 
tion. Women,  immured  as  they  now  are,  and 
never  suffered  to  go  out  into  the  world  unless 
guarded  by  husband,  brother  or  discreet  managing 
friend,  will  continue  as  weak  and  undiscriminating 
as  the  great  mass  of  them  now  are.  But,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  this  system  is  destined  to  change. 
I  must  be  permitted  a  larger  liberty,  and  oppor- 
tunities for  independent  observation.  I  wish  to 
read  character  for  myself,  and  make  up  my  own 
mind  in  regard  to  the  people  I  meet." 

"I  am  only  sorry,"  rejoined  her  husband,  "that 
your  first  effort  at  reading  character  and  making 
up  independent  opinions  in  regard  to  men  and 
principles  had  not  found  scope  in  another  direction. 
I  am  afraid  that,  in  trying  to  get  close  enough  to 
the  people  you  meet  at  Mrs.  Talbot's  for  accurate 
observation,  you  will  draw  so  near  to  dangerous 
fires  as  to  scorch  your  garments." 

"Complimentary  to  Mrs.  Talbot!" 

"  The  remark  simply  gives  you  my  estimate  ol 
some  of  her  favored  visitors." 

"And  complimentary  to  your  wife,"  added 
Irene. 

"  My  wife,"  said  Hartley,  in  a  serious  voice,  "  is, 
like  myself,  young  and  inexperienced,  and  should 
be  particularly  cautious  in  regard  to  all  new  ac- 


THE  REFORMERS.  147 

quaintanees — men  or  women — particularly  if  they 
be  some  years  her  senior,  and  particularly  if  they 
show  any  marked  desire  to  cultivate  her  acquaint- 
ance. People  with,  a  large  worldly  experience, 
like  most  of  those  we  have  met  at  Mrs.  Talbot's, 
take  you  and  I  at  disadvantage.  They  read  us 
through  at  a  single  sitting,  while  it  may  take  u*t 
months,  even  years,  to  penetrate  the  disguises  thpy 
know  so  well  how  to  assume." 

"Nearly  all  of  which,  touching  the  pleasant 
people  we  meet  at  Mrs.  Talbot's,  is  assumed,"  re- 
plied Irene,  not  at  all  moved  by  her  husband's 
earnestness. 

"  You  may  learn  to  your  sorrow,  when  the 
knowledge  comes  too  late,"  he  responded,  "  that 
even  more  than  I  have  assumed  is  true." 

"  I  am  not  in  fear  of  the  sorrow,"  was  answered 
lightly. 

As  Irene,  against  all  argument,  persuasion  and 
remonstrance  on  the  part  of  her  husband,  persisted 
in  her  determination  to  go  to  Mrs.  Talbot's,  he  en- 
gaged a  carriage  to  take  her  there  and  to  call  for 
her  at  eleven  o'clock. 

"  Come  away  alone,"  he  said,  with  impressive 
earnestness,  a?  he  parted  from  her.  ''Don't  let 
any  courteous  >ffer  induce  you  to  accept  an  attend- 
ant when  you  return  home." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A    STARTLING    EXPERIENCE. 

tRS.  EMERSON  did  not  feel  altogether  com- 
fortable in  mind  as  she  rode  away  from  her 
door  alone.  She  was  going  unattended  by 

*  her  husband,  and  against  his  warmly-spoken 
remonstrance,  to  pass  an  evening  with  people  of 
whom  she  knew  but  little,  and  against  whom  he 
had  strong  prejudices. 

"  It  were  better  to  have  remained  at  home,"  she 
said  to  herself  more  than  once  before  her  arrival 
at  Mrs.  Talbot's.  The  marked  attentions  she  re- 
ceived, as  well  from  Mrs.  Talbot  as  from  several 
of  her  guests,  soon  brought  her  spirits  up  to  the 
old  elevation.  Among  those  who  seemed  most 
attracted  by  her  was  Major  Willard,  to  whom 
reference  has  already  been  made. 

"  Where  is  your  husband  ?"  was  almost  his  first 
inquiry  on  meeting  her.  "  I  do  not  see  him  in  the 
room." 

"  He  had  to  meet  a  gentleman  on  business  over 
in  Brooklyn  this  evening,"  replied  Irene. 

"Ah,  business!"  said  the  major,  with  a  shrug, 
a  movement  of  the  eyebrows  and  a  motion  in  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  which  were  not  intelligible 

148 


A  STARTLING  EXPERIENCE.  149 

i  gns  to  Mrs.  Emerson.  That  they  meant  some- 
thing more  than  he  was  prepared  to  utter  in  words, 
she  was  satisfied,  but  whether  of  favorable  or  un- 
favorable import  touching  her  absent  husband,  she 
could  not  tell.  The  impression  on  her  mind  wau 
not  agreeable,  and  she  could  not  help  remembering 
what  Hartley  had  said  about  the  major. 

"  I  notice,"  remarked  the  latter,  "  that  we  have 
several  ladies  here  who  come  usually  without  their 
husbands.  Gentlemen  are  not  always  attracted  by 
the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul.  They 
require  something  more  substantial.  Oysters  and 
terrapin  are  nearer  to  their  fancy." 

"  Not  more  to  my  husband's  fancy,"  replied  Mrs. 
Emerson,  in  a  tone  of  vindication,  as  well  as  re- 
buke at  such  freedom  of  speech. 

"  Beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times,  madam  !" 
returned  Major  Willard,  "  if  I  have  even  seemed 
to  speak  lightly  of  one  who  holds  the  honored 
position  of  your  husband.  Nothing  could  have 
been-  farther  from  my  thought.  I  was  only 
trifling." 

Mrs.  Emerson  smiled  her  forgiveness,  and  the 
major  became  more  polite  and  attentive  than  be- 
fore. But  his  attentions  were  not  wholly  agree- 
able. Something  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes  as 
he  looked  at  her  produced  an  unpleasant  repulsion. 
She  was  constantly  remembering  some  of  the  cau- 
tions spoken  by  Hartley  in  reference  to  this  man, 
and  she  wished  scores  of  times  that  he  would  turn 


150  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

his  attentions  to  some  one  else.  But  the  major 
eeemed  to  have  no  eyes  for  any  other  lady  in  the 
room. 

In  spite  of  the  innate  repulsion  to  which  we 
have  referred,  Mrs.  Emerson  was  nattered  by  the 
polished  major's  devotion  of  himself  almost  wholly 
to  her  during  the  evening,  and  she  could  do  no 
less  in  return  than  make  herself  as  agreeable  as 
possible. 

At  eleven  o'clock  she  had  notice  that  her  car- 
riage was  at  the  door.  The  major  was  by,  and 
heard  the  communication.  So,  when  she  came 
down  from  the  dressing-room,  he  was  waiting  for 
her  in  the  hall,  ready  cloaked  and  gloved. 

"  No,  Major  Willard,  I  thank  you,"  she  said,  on 
his  making  a  movement  to  accompany  her.  She 
spoke  very  positively. 

"  I  cannot  see  you  go  home  unattended."  And 
the  major  bowed  with  graceful  politeness. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Mrs.  Talbot.  "  You  must  not 
leave  my  house  alone.  Major,  I  shall  expect  you 
to  attend  my  young  friend." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Mrs.  Emerson  objected  and 
remonstrated,  the  gallant  major  would  listen  to 
nolLing;  and  so,  perforce,  she  had  to  yield. 
After  handing  her  into  the  carriage,  he  spoke  a 
word  or  two  in  an  undertone  to  the  driver,  and 
then  entering,  took  his  place  by  her  side. 

Mrs.  Emerson  felt  strangely  uncomfortable  and 
embarrassed,  and  shrunk  as  far  from  her  companion 


A  STARTLING  EXPERIENCE.  151 

as  the  narrow  space  they  occupied  would  permit; 
while  he,  it  seemed  to  her,  approached  as  she  re- 
ceded. There  was  a  different  tone  in  his  voice 
when  he  spoke  as  the  carriage  moved  away  from 
any  she  had  noticed  heretofore.  He  drew  his  face 
near  to  hers  in  speaking,  but  the  rattling  of  the 
wheels  made  hearing  difficult.  He  had,  during 
the  evening,  referred  to  a  star  actress  then  occupy- 
ing public  attention,  of  whom  some  scandalous 
things  had  been  said,  and  declared  his  belief  in  her 
innocence.  To  Mrs.  Emerson's  surprise — almost 
disgust — his  first  remark  after  they  were  seated  in 
the  carriage  was  about  this  actress.  Irene  did  not 
respond  to  his  remark. 

"  Did  you  ever  meet  her  in  private  circles  ?"  he 
tiext  inquired. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

"  I  have  had  that  pleasure/'  said  Major  Willard. 

There  was  no  responsive  word. 

"  She  is  a  most  fascinating  woman,"  continued 
the  major.  "  That  Juno-like  beauty  which  so  dis- 
tinguishes her  on  the  stage  scarcely  shows  itself  in 
the  drawing-room.  On  the  stage  she  is  queenly — 
in  private,  soft,  voluptuous  and  winning  as  a 
houri.  I  don't  wonder  that  she  has  crowds  of 
admirers." 

The  major's  face  was  close  to  that  of  his  com- 
panion, who  felt  a  wild  sense  of  repugnance,  so 
strong  as  to  be  almost  suffocating.  The  carriage 
bounded  as  the  wheels  struck  an  inequality  in  the 


152  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

street,  throwing  them  together  with  a  slight  con- 
cussion. The  major  laid  his  hand  upon  that  of 
Mrs.  Emerson,  as  if  to  support  her.  But  she  in- 
stantly withdrew  the  hand  he  had  presumed  to 
touch.  He  attempted  the  same  familiarity  again, 
but  she  placed  both  hands  beyond  the  possibility 
of  accidental  or  designed  contact  with  his,  and 
shrank  still  closer  into  the  corner  of  the  carriage, 
while  her  heart  fluttered  and  a  tremor  ran  through 
her  frame. 

Major  Willard  spoke  again  of  the  actress,  but 
Mrs.  Emerson  made  no  reply. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  asked,  after  the 
lapse  of  some  ten  minutes,  glancing  from  the  win- 
dow and  seeing,  instead  of  the  tall  rows  of  stately 
houses  which  lined  the  streets  along  the  whole  dis- 
tance between  Mrs.  Talbot's  residence  and  her  own 
house,  mean-looking  tenements. 

"  The  driver  knows  his  route,  I  presume,"  was 
answered. 

"  This  is  not  the  way,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs. 
Emerson,  a  slight  quiver  of  alarm  in  her  voice. 

"Our  drivers  know  the  shortest  cuts,"  replied 
the  major,  "and  these  do  not  always  lead  through 
(he  most  attractive  quarters  of  the  town." 

Mrs.  Emerson  shrunk  back  again  in  her  seat 
and  was  silent.  Her  heart  was  throbbing  with  a 
vague  fear.  Suddenly  the  carriage  stopped  and 
the  driver  alighted. 

"  This  is  not  my  home,"  said  Mrs.  Emerson,  aa 


A  STARTLING  EXPERIENCE.  153 

the  driver  opened  the  door,  and  the  major  stepped 
out  upon  the  pavement. 

"Oh,  yes.  This  is  No.  240  L street. 

Yes,  ma'am,"  added  the  driver,  "this  is  the 
number  that  the  gentleman  told  me/' 

"  What  gentleman  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Emerson. 

"  This  gentleman,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

"  Drive  me  home  instantly,  or  this  may  cost 
you  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Emerson,  in  as  stern  a 
voice  as  surprise  and  fear  would  permit  her  to 
assume. 

"  Madam — "  Major  Willard  commenced  speak- 
ing. 

"  Silence,  sir!  Shut  the  door,  driver,  and  take 
me  home  instantly !" 

The  major  made  a  movement  as  if  he  were  about 
to  enter  the  carriage,  when  Mrs.  Emerson  said,  in 
a  low,  steady,  threatening  voice — 

"At  your  peril,  remain  outside!  Driver,  shut 
the  door.  If  you  permit  that  man  to  enter,  my 
husband  will  hold  you  to  a  strict  account." 

"  Stand  back !"  exclaimed  the  driver,  in  a  reso- 
lute voice. 

But  the  major  was  not  to  be  put  off  in  this  way. 
Fie  did  not  move  from  the  open  door  of  the  car- 
riage. In  the  next  moment  the  driver's  vigorous 
arm  had  hurled  him  across  the  pavement.  The 
door  was  shut,  the  box  mounted  and  the  carriage 
whirled  away,  before  the  astonished  man  could 
rise,  half  stunned,  from  the  place  where  he  fell.  A 


]  54  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

few  low,  bitter,  impotent  curses  fell  from  his  lips, 
and  then  he  walked  slowly  away,  muttering  threats 
of  vengeance. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  Irene  reached 
home. 

"  You  are  late,"  said  her  husband,  as  she  came 
in. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  later  than  I  intended." 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  inquired,  looking  at 
her  narrowly. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?"  She  tried  to  put  on  an  air 
of  indifference. 

"  You  look  pale  and  your  voice  is  dis- 
turbed." 

"  The  driver  went  through  parts  of  the  town  in 
returning  that  made  me  feel  nervous,  as  I  thought 
of  my  lonely  and  unprotected  situation." 

"Why  did  he  do  that?" 

"It  wasn't  to  make  the  way  shorter,  for  the  di- 
rectest  route  would  have  brought  me  home  ten 
minutes  ago.  I  declare !  The  fellow's  conduct 
made  me  right  nervous.  I  thought  a  dozen  im- 
probable things." 

"  It  is  the  last  time  I  will  employ  him,"  said 
Hartley.  "  How  dare  he  go  a  single  block  away 
from  a  direct  course,  at  this  late  hour?"  He 
spoke  with  rising  indignation. 

At  first,  Irene  resolved  to  inform  her  husband 
of  Major  Willard's  conduct,  but  it  will  be  seen  by 
this  conversation  that  she  had  changed  her  mind, 


A   STARTLING  EXPERIENCE.  155 

at  least  for  the  present.  T*vo  or  three  things 
caused  her  to  hesitate  until  she  could  turn  the 
matter  over  in  her  thoughts  more  carefully.  Pride 
had  its  influence.  She  did  not  care  to  admit  that 
she  had  been  in  error  and  Hartley  right  as  to 
Major  Willard.  But  there  was  a  more  soher  as- 
pect of  the  case.  Hartley  was  excitable,  brave  and 
strong-willed.  She  feared  the  consequences  that 
might  follow  if  he  were  informed  of  Major  Wil- 
lard's  outrageous  conduct.  A  personal  collision 
she  saw  to  be  almost  inevitable  in  this  event. 
Mortifying  publicity,  if  not  the  shedding  of  blood, 
would,  ensue. 

So,  for  the  present  at  least,  she  resolved  to  keep 
her  own  secret,  and  evaded  the  close  queries  of  her 
husband,  who  was  considerably  disturbed  by  the 
alleged  conduct  of  the  driver. 

One  good  result  followed  this  rather  startling 
experience.  Irene  said  no  more  about  attending 
the  conversaziones  of  Mrs.  Talbot.  She  did  not 
care  to  meet  Major  Willard  again,  and  as  he  was  a 
regular  visitor  at  Mrs.  Talbot's,  she  couldn't  go 
there  without  encountering  him.  Her  absence  on 
the  next  social  evening  was  remarked  by  her  new 
friend,  who  called  on  her  the  next  day. 

"  I  didn't  see  you  last  night,"  said  the  agreeable 
Mrs.  Talbot. 

"  No,  I  remained  at  home,"  replied  Mrs.  Emer- 
son, the  smile  with  which  she  had  received  her 
friend  fading  partly  away. 


156  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

"Not  indisposed,  I  hope?" 

"  No." 

"But  your  husband  was !  Talk  it  right  out,  my 
pretty  one !"  said  Mrs.  Talbot,  in  a  gay,  bantering 
tone.  "  Indisposed  in  mind.  He  don't  like  the 
class  of  people  one  meets  at  my  house.  Men  of 
his  stamp  never  do." 

It  was  on  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Emerson  to  say  that 
there  might  be  ground  for  his  dislike  of  some  who 
were  met  there.  But  she  repressed  even  a  remote 
reference  to  an  affair  that,  for  the  gravest  of  reasons, 
she  still  desired  to  keep  as  her  own  secret.  So  she 
merely  answered — 

"  The  indisposition  of  mind  was  on  my  part." 

"On  your  part?  Oh  dear!  That  alters  the 
ease.  And,  pray,  what  occasioned  this  indis- 
position? Not  a  previous  mental  surfeit,  I 
hope." 

"  Oh  no.  I  never  get  a  surfeit  in  good  com- 
pany. But  people's  states  vary,  as  you  are  aware. 
I  had  a  stay-at-home  feeling  last  night,  and  in- 
dulged myself." 

"  Very  prettily  said,  my  dear.  I  understand 
you  entirely,  and  like  your  frank,  outspoken  wav. 
This  is  always  best  with  friends.  I  desire  all  of 
mine  to  enjoy  the  largest  liberty — to  come  and 
see  me  when  they  feel  like  it,  and  to  stay  away 
when  they  don't  feel  like  coming.  We  had  a  de- 
lightful time.  Major  Willard  was  there.  He's  a 
charming  man!  Several  times  through  the  evening 


A  STARTLING  EXPERIENCE.  157 

he  asked  for  you.  I  "really  think  your  absence 
worried  him.  Now,  don't  blush !  A  handsome, 
accomplished  man  may  admire  a  handsome  and 
accomplished  woman,  without  anything  wrong  Ixs 
ing  involved.  Because  one  has  a  husband",  is  she 
not  to  be  spoken  to  or  admired  by  other  men? 
Nonsense !  That  is  the  world's  weak  prudery,  01 
rather  the  common  social  sentiment  based  on  man's 
tyranny  over  woman." 

As  Mrs.  Talbot  ran  on  in  this  strain,  Mrs.  Emer- 
son had  time  to  reflect  and  school  her  exterior.  To- 
ward Major  Willard  her  feelings  were  those  of  dis- 
gust and  detestation.  Tl>e  utterance  of  his  name 
shocked  her  womanly  delicacy,  but  when  it  was 
coupled  with  a  sentiment  of  admiration  for  her, 
and  an  intimation  of  the  probable  existence  of 
something  reciprocal  on  her  part,  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  she  could  restrain  a  burst  of  indignant 
feeling.  But  her  strong  will  helped  her,  and 
she  gave  no  intelligible  sign  of  what  was  really 
passing  in  her  thoughts.  The  subject  being  al- 
together disagreeable,  she  changed  it  as  soon  as 
possible. 

In  this  interview  with  Mrs.  Talbot  a  new  im- 
pression in  regard  to  her  was  made  on  the  mind 
of  Mrs.  Emerson.  Something  impure  seemed  to 
jx;rvade  the  mental  atmosphere  with  which  she  was 
surrounded,  and  there  seemed  to  be  things  involved 
in  what  she  said  that  shadowed  a  latitude  in  mor- 
als wholly  outside  of  Christian  duty.  When  they 


158  AFTER  THE  STOEM. 

separated,  much  of  the  enthusiasm  which  Irene 
had  felt  for  this  specious,  unsafe  acquaintance  was 
gone,  and  her  power  over  her  was  in  the  same 
measure  lessened. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

CAPTIVATED  AGAIN. 

UT  it  is  not  so  easily  escaping  from  a  woman 
like  Mrs.  Talbot,  when  an  acquaintanceship 
is  once  formed.  In  less  than  a  week  she 
called  again,  and  this  time  in  company  with 
another  lady,  a  Mrs.  Lloyd,  whom  she  introduced 
as  a  very  dear  friend.  Mrs.  Lloyd  was  a  tall, 
spare  woman,  with  an  intellectual  face,  bright, 
restless,  penetrating  eyes,  a  clear  musical  voice, 
subdued,  but  winning  manners.  She  was  a  little 
past  thirty,  though  sickness  of  body  or  mind  had 
stolen  the  bloom  of  early  womanhood,  and  carried 
her  forward,  apparently,  to  the  verge  of  forty. 
Mrs.  Emerson  had  never  before  heard  of  this  lady. 
But  half  an  hour's  conversation  completely  cap- 
tivated her.  Mrs.  Lloyd  had  traveled  through 
Europe,  and  spoke  in  a  familiar  way  of  the  cele- 
brated personages  whom  she  had  met  abroad, — 
talked  of  art,  music  and  architecture,  literature, 
artists  and  literary  men — displayed  such  high  cul- 
ture and  easy  acquaintance  with  themes  qaite  above 
the  range  usually  met  with  among  ordinary  people, 
that  Mrs.  Emerson  felt  really  flattered  with  the 
compliment  of  a  visit. 

159 


160  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  My  good  friend,  Mrs.  Talbot,"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd, 
during  their  conversation,  "  has  spoken  of  you  so 
warmly  that  I  could  do  no  less  than  make  over- 
tures for  an  acquaintance,  which  I  trust  may  prove 
agreeable.  I  anticipated  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  at  her  house  last  week,  but  was  disappointed." 

"  The  interview  of  to-day,"  remarked  Mrs.  Tal- 
bot, coming  in  adroitly,  "will  only  make  pleasanter 
your  meeting  on  to-morrow  night." 

"At  your  house?"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd. 

"Yes."  And  Mrs.  Talbot  threw  a  winning 
smile  upon  Mrs.  Emerson.  "You  will  be  there?" 

"  I  think  not,"  was  replied. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  come,  my  dear  Mrs.  Emer- 
Bon  !  We  cannot  do  without  you." 

"  I  have  promised  my  husband  to  go  out  with 
him." 

"Your  husband!"  The  voice  of  Mrs.  Talbot 
betrayed  too  plainly  her  contempt  of  husbands. 

"  Yes,  my  husband."  Mrs.  Emerson  let  her 
voice  dwell  with  meaning  on  the  word. 

The  other  ladies  looked  at  each  other  for  a 
moment  or  two  with  meaning  glances ;  then  Mrs. 
Talbot  remarked,  in  a  quiet  way,  but  with  a  little 
pleasantry  in  her  voice,  as  if  she  were  not  right 
clear  in  regard  to  her  young  friend's  state  of  feeling, 

"Oh  dear!  these  husbands  are  dreadfully  in  the 
way,  sometimes !  Haven't  you  found  it  so,  Mrs. 
Lloyd  ?" 

The  eyes  of  Mrs.  Emerson  were  turned  instantly 


CAPTIVATED  AGAIN.  161 

to  the  face  of  her  new  acquaintance.  She  saw  a 
slight  change  of  expression  in  her  pale  face  that 
took  something  from  its  agreeable  aspect.  And 
yet  Mrs.  Lloyd  smiled  as  she  answered,  in  a  way 
meant  to  be  pleasant, 

"  They  are  very  good  in  their  place." 

"  The  trouble,"  remarked  Mrs.  Talbot,  in  reply, 
<f  is  to  make  them  keep  their  place," 

"At  our  feet."  Mrs.  Emerson  laughed  as  she 
said  this. 

"  No,"  answered  Mrs.  Lloyd — "  at  our  sides,  as 
•equals." 

"And  beyond  that,"  said  Mrs.  Talbot,  "  we  want 
them  to  give  us  as  much  freedom  in  the  world  as 
they  take  for  themselves.  They  come  in  and  go 
out 'when  they  please,  and  submit  to  no  questioning 
on  our  part.  Very  well ;  I  don't  object ;  only  I 
claim  the  same  right,  for  myself.  *  I  will  ask  my 
husband.'  Don't  you  hear  this  said  every  day? 
Pah !  I'm  always  tempted  to  cut  the  acquaintance 
of  a  woman  when  I  hear  these  words  from  her  lips. 
Does  a  man,  when  a  friend  asks  him  to  do  anything 
or  go  anywhere,  say,  '  I'll  ask  my  wife  ?'  Not  he. 
A  lady  who  comes  occasionally  to  our  weekly  re- 
unions, but  whose  husband  is  too  much  of  a  man  to 
put  himself  down  to  the  level  of  our  set,  is  permit- 
ted the  enjoyment  of  an  evening  with  us,  now  and 
then,  on  one  condition." 

"  Condition  !"     There  was  a  throb  of  indignant 
feeling  in  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Lloyd. 
11 


162  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Yes,  on  condition  that  no  male  visitor  at  my 
house  shall  accompany  her  home.  A  carriage  is 
sent  for  her  precisely  at  ten  o'clock,  when  she  must 
leave,  and  alone." 

"  Humiliating !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Lloyd. 

"  Isn't  it  ?  I  can  scarcely  have  patience  with 
her.  Major  Willard  has,  at  my  instance,  several 
times  made  an  effort  to  accompany  her,  and  once 
actually  entered  her  carriage.  But  the  lady  com- 
manded him  to  retire,  or  she  would  leave  the  car- 
riage herself.  Of  course,  when  she  took  that 
position,  the  gallant  major  had  to  leave  the  field." 

"  Such  a  restriction  would  scarce  have  suited  my 
fancy,"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd. 

"Nor  mine.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 
And  Mrs.  Talbot  looked  into  the  face  of  Mrs.  Em- 
erson, whose  color  had  risen  beyond  its  usual  tone. 

"  Circumstances  alter  cases,"  replied  the  latter, 
crushing  out  all  feeling  from  her  voice  and  letting 
it  fall  into  a  dead  level  of  indifference. 

"  But  circumstances  don't  alter  facts,  my  dear. 
There  are  the  hard  facts  of  restrictions  and  condi- 
tions, made  by  a  man,  and  applied  to  his  equal,  a 
woman.  Does  she  say  to  him,  You  can't  go  to  your 
club  unless  you  return  alone  in  your  carriage,  and 
leave  the  club-house  precisely  at  ten  o'clock  ?  Oil 
no.  He  would  laugh  in  her  face,  or,  perhaps,  con- 
sult the  family  physician  touching  her  sanity." 

This  niode  of  putting  the  question  rather  bewil- 
dered the  mind  of  our  young  wife,  and  she  dropped 


CAPTIVATED  AGAIN.  163 

her  eyes  from  those  of  Mrs.  Talbot  and  sat  looking 
upon  the  floor  in  silence. 

"  Can't  you  get  your  husband  to  release  you  from 
this  engagement  of  which  you  have  spoken?"  asked 
Mrs.  Lloyd.  "  I  should  like  above  all  things  to 
meet  you  to-morrow  evening." 

Mrs.  Emerson  smiled  as  she  answered, 

"  Husbands  have  rights,  you  know,  as  well  aa 
wives.  We  must  consult  their  pleasure  sometimes, 
as  well  as  our  own." 

"  Certainly — certainly."  Mrs.  Lloyd  spoke  with 
-*isible  impatience. 

"  I  promised  to  go  with  my  husband  to-morrow 
/light,"  said  Mrs.  Emerson ;  "  and,  much  as  I  may 
desire  to  meet  you  at  Mrs.  Talbot's,  I  am  not  at 
liberty  to  go  there." 

"  In  bonds  !  Ah  me !  Poor  wives  !"  sighed 
Mrs.  Talbot,  in  affected  pity.  "Not  at  liberty! 
The  admission  which  comes  to  us  from  all  sides/' 

She  laughed  in  her  gurgling,  hollow  way  as  she 
said  this. 

"  Not  bound  to  my  husband,  but  to  my  word  of 
promise,"  replied  Mrs.  Emerson,  as  pleasantly  as 
her  disturbed  feelings  would  permit  her  to  speak. 
The  ladies  were  pressing  her  a  little  too  closely, 
»nd  she  both  saw  and  felt  this.  They  were  step- 
ping beyond  the  bounds  of  reason  and  delicacy. 

Mrs.  Lloyd  saw  the  state  of  mind  which  had 
been  produced,  and  at  once  changed  the  subject. 

"  May  I  flatter  myself  with  the  prospect  of  hav- 


1CI  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

ing  this  call  returned?''  she  said,  handing  Mrs, 
Emerson  her  card  as  she  was  about  leaving. 

"  It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  know  you 
better,  and  you  may  look  to  seeing  me  right  early," 
was  the  bland  reply.  And  yet  Mrs.  Emerson  was 
not  really  attracted  by  this  woman,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, repelled.  There  was  something  in  her  keen, 
searching  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  looking  right 
into  the  thoughts,  that  gave  her  a  feeling  of  doubt. 

"Thank  you.  The  favor  will  be  all  on  my 
Fide,"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd,  as  she  held  the  hand  of 
Mrs.  Emerson  and  gave  it  a  warm  pressure. 

The  visit  of  these  ladies  did  not  leave  the  mind 
of  Irene  in  a  very  satisfactory  state.  Some  things 
that  were  said  she  rejected,  while  other  things  ling- 
ered and  occasioned  suggestions  which  were  not 
favorable  to  her  husband.  While  she  had  no  wish 
to  be  present  at  Mrs.  Talbot's  on  account  of  Major 
Willard,  she  was  annoyed  by  the  thought  that 
Hartley's  fixing  on  the  next  evening  for  her  to  go 
out  with  him  was  to  prevent  her  attendance  at  the 
weekly  conversazione. 

Irene  did  not  mention  to  her  husband  the  fact 
that  she  had  received  a  visit  from  Mrs.  Talbot,  in 
company  with  a  pleasant  stranger,  Mrs.  Lloyd. 
It  would  have  been  far  better  for  her  if  she  had 
done  so.  Many  times  it  was  on  her  lips  to  mention 
the  call,  but  as  often  she  kept  silent,  one  or  the 
other  of  two  considerations  having  influence.  Hart- 
ley did  not  like  Mrs.  Talbot,  and  therefore  tha 


CAPTIVATED  AGAIN.  165 

mention  of  her  name,  and  the  fact  of  her  calling, 
would  not  be  a  pleasant  theme.  The  other  consid- 
eration had  reference  to  a  woman's  independence. 
•'  He  doesn't  tell  me  of  every  man  he  meets 
through  the  day,  and  why  should  I  feel  under 
obligation  to,  speak  of  every  lady  who  calls  ?"  So 
she  thought.  "As  to  Mrs.  Lloyd,  he  would  have 
a  hundred  prying  questions  to  ask,  as  if  I  were  not 
competent  to  judge  of  the  character  of  my  own 
friends  and  acquaintances." 

Within  a  week  the  call  of  Mrs.  Lloyd  was  recip- 
rocated by  Mrs.  Emerson ;  not  in  consequence  of 
feeling  drawn  toward  that  lady,  but  she  had  prom- 
ised to  return  the  friendly  visit,  and  must  keep  her 
word.  She  found  her  domiciliated  in  a  fashionable 
boarding-house,  and  was  received  in  the  common 
parlor,  in  which  were  two  or  three  ladies  and  a 
gentleman,  besides  Mrs.  Lloyd.  The  greeting  she 
received  was  warm,  almost  affectionate.  In  spite 
of  the  prejudice  that  was  creeping  into  her  mind 
in  consequence  of  an  unfavorable  first  impression, 
Mrs.  Emerson  was  flattered  by  her  reception,  and 
before  the  termination  of  her  visit  she  was  satisfied 
that  she  had  not,  in  the  beginning,  formed  a  right 
estimate  of  this  really  fascinating  woman. 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  right  soon,"  she  said,  as  she 
bade  Mrs.  Lloyd  good-morning.  "  It  will  not  be 
my  fault  if  we  \\o  not  soon  know  each  other  better." 

"  Nor  mine  either,"  replied  Mrs.  Lloyd.  "  I 
think  I  shall  find  you  just  after  my  own  heart." 


166  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Lloyd  was  a  little  raised  aa 
she  said  this,  and  Mrs.  Emerson  noticed  that  a 
gentleman  who  was  in  the  parlor  when  she  entered, 
but  to  whom  she  had  not  been  introduced,  turned 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  steady,  curious  gaze,  which 
struck  her  at  the  time  as  being  on  the  verge  of  im- 
pertinence. 

Only  two  or  three  days  passed  before  Mrs.  Lloyd 
returned  this  visit.  Irene  found  her  more  interest- 
ing than  ever.  She  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  society, 
and  had  met,  according  to  her  own  story,  with  most 
of  the  distinguished  men  and  women  of  the  coun- 
try, about  whom  she  talked  in  a  very  agreeable 
manner.  She  described  their  personal  appearance, 
habits,  peculiarities  and  manners,  and  related  pleas- 
ant anecdotes  about  them.  On  authors  and  books 
she  was  entirely  at  home. 

But  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  feeling  in  all 
she  said  that  a  wiser  and  more  experienced  woman 
than  Irene  would  have  noted.  It  was  not  a  feeling 
of  admiration  for  moral,  but  for  intellectual,  beauty. 
She  could  dissect  a  character  with  wonderful  skill, 
but  always  passed  the  quality  of  goodness  as  not 
taken  into  account.  In  her  view  this  quality  did 
not  seem  to  be  a  positive  element. 

When  Mrs.  Lloyd  went  away,  she  left  the  mind 
of  Irene  stimulated,  restless  and  fluttering  with 
vague  fancies.  She  felt  envious  of  her  new 
friend's  accomplishments,  and  ambitious  to  move 
in  as  wide  a  sphere  as»  she  had  compassed.  The 


CAPTIVATED  AGAIN.  1(17 

visit  was  returned  at  an  early  period,  and,  as  before, 
Mrs.  Emerson  met  Mrs.  Lloyd  in  the  public  parlor 
of  her  boarding-house.  The  same  gentleman*  whose 
manner  had  a  little  annoyed  her  was  present,  and 
she  noticed  several  times,  on  glancing  toward  him, 
that  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  with  an. 
expression  that  she  did  not  understand. 

After  this,  the  two  ladies  met  every  day  or  two, 
and  sometimes  walked  Broadway  together.  The 
only  information  that  Mrs.  Emerson  had  in  regard 
to  her  attractive  friend  she  received  from  Mrs. 
Talbot.  According  to  her  statement,  she  was  a 
widow  whose  married  life  had  not  been  a  happy 
one.  The  husband,  like  most  husbands,  was  an 
overbearing  tyrant,  and  the  wife,  having  a  spirit  of 
her  own,  resisted  his  authority.  Trouble  was  the 
consequence,  and  Mrs.  Talbot  thought,  though  she 
was  not  certain,  that  a  separation  took  place  before 
Mr.  Lloyd's  death.  She 'had  a  moderate  income, 
which  came  from  her  husband's  estate,  on  which 
she  lived  in  a  kind  of  idle  independence.  So  she 
had  plenty  of  time  to  read,  visit  and  enjoy  herself 
in  the  ways  her  fancy  or  inclination  might  prompt. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WEARY  OF  CONSTRAINT. 

'IME  moved  on,  and  Mrs.  Emerson's  intimate 
city  friends  were  those  to  whom  she  had  been 
introduced,  directly  or  indirectly,  through 
Mrs.  Talbot.  Of  these,  the  one  who  had 
most  influence  over  her  was  Mrs.  Lloyd,  and  that 
influence  was  not  of  the  right  kind.  Singularly 
enough,  it  so  happened  that  Mr.  Emerson  never 
met  this  lady  at  his  house,  though  she  spent  hours 
there  every  week ;  and,  more  singular  still,  Iren« 
had  never  spoken  about  her  to  her  husband.  She 
had  often  been  on  the  point  of  doing  so,  but  an 
impression  that  Hartley  would  take  up  an  unrea- 
sonable prejudice  against  her  kept  the  name  of 
this  friend  back  from  her  lips. 

Months  now  succeeded  each  other  without  the 
occurrence  of  events  marked  by  special  interest. 
Mr.  Emerson  grew  more  absorbed  in  his  profession 
as  cases  multiplied  on  his  hands,  and  Irene,  inter- 
ested in  her  circle  of  bright-minded,  independent- 
thoughted  women,  found  the  days  and  weeks  glid- 
ing on  pleasantly  enough.  But  habits  of  estimat- 
ing things  a  little  differently  from  the  common 
sentiment,  and  views  of  life  not  by  any  means 
166 


WEARY  OF  CONSTRAINT.  109 

consonant  with  those  prevailing  among  the  larger 
numbers  of  her  sex,  were  gradually  taking  root. 

Young,  inexperienced,  self-willed  and  active  in 
mind,  Mrs.  Emerson  had  most  unfortunately  been 
introduced  among  a  class  of  persons  whose  influ- 
ence upon  her  could  not  fail  to  be  hurtful.  Their 
conversation  was  mainly  of  art,  literature,  social 
progress  and  development ;  the  drama,  music,  pub- 
lic sentiment  on  leading  topics  of  the  day ;  the  ad- 
vancement of  liberal  ideas,  the  necessity  of  a  larger 
liberty  and  a  wider  sphere  of  action  for  woman,  and 
the  equality  of  the  sexes.  All  well  enough,  all  to 
be  commended  when  viewed  in  their  just  relation 
to  other  themes  and  interests,  but  actually  per- 
nicious when  separated  from  the  homely  and  use- 
ful things  of  daily  life,  and  made  so  to  overshadow 
these  as  to  warp  them  into  comparative  insignifi- 
cance. Here  lay  the  evil.  It  was  this  elevation 
of  her  ideas  above  the  region  of  use  and  duty  into 
the  mere  a3sthetic  and  reformatory  that  was  hurt- 
ful to  one  like  Irene — that  is,  in  fact,  hurtful  to 
any  woman,  for  it  is  always  hurtful  to  take  away 
from  the  mind  its  interest  in  common  life — the  life, 
we  mean,  of  daily  useful  work. 

Work !  \Ve  know  the  word  has  not  a  pleasant 
sound  to  many  ears,  that  it  seems  to  include 
degradation,  and  a  kind  of  social  slavery,  and  lies 
away  down  in  a  region  to  which  your  fine,  culti- 
vated, intellectual  woman  cannot  descend  without, 
in  her  view,  soiling  her  garments.  But  for  all 


170  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

this,  it  is  alone  in  daily  useful  work  of  mind  or 
hands,  work  in  which  service  and  benefits  to  others 
are  involved,  that  a  woman  (or  a  man)  gains  any 
true  perfection  of  character.  And  this  work  must 
be  her  own,  must  lie  within  the  sphere  of  her  own 
relations  to  others,  and  she  must  engage  in  it  from 
a  sense  of  duty  that  takes  its  promptings  from  her 
own  consciousness  of  right.  No  other  woman  can 
judge  of  her  relation  to  this  work,  and  she  who 
dares  to  interfere  or  turn  her  aside  should  be  con- 
sidered an  enemy — not  a  friend. 

No  wonder,  if  this  be  true,  that  we  have  so 
many  women  of  taste,  cultivation,  and  often  bril- 
liant intellectual  powers,  blazing  about  like  comets 
or  shooting  stars  in  our  social  firmament.  They 
attract  admiring  attention,  excite  our  wonder,  give 
us  themes  for  conversation  and  criticism ;  but  as 
guides  and  indicators  while  we  sail  over  the  dan- 
gerous sea  of  life,  what  are  they  in  comparison 
with  some  humble  star  of  the  sixth  magnitude 
that  ever  keeps  its  true  place  in  the  heavens,  shin- 
ing on  with  its  small  but  steady  ray,  a  perpetual 
blessing?  And  so  the  patient,  thoughtful,  loving 
wife  and  mother,  doing  her  daily  work  for  human 
souls  and  bodies,  though  her  intellectual  powers  IKJ 
humble,  and  her  taste  but  poorly  cultivated,  tills 
more  honorably  her  sphere  than  any  of  her  more 
brilliant  sisters,  who  cast  off  what  they  consider 
the  shackles  by  which  custom  and  tyranny  have 
bound  them  down  to  mere  home  duties  and  the 


WEARY  OF  CONSTRAINT.  171 

drudgery  of  household  care.  If  down  into  these 
they  would  bring  their  superior  powers,  their  cul- 
tivated tastes,  their  larger  knowledge,  how  quickly 
would  some  desert  homes  in  our  land  put  on  re- 
freshing greenness,  and  desolate  gardens  blossom 
like  the  rose!  We  should  have,  instead  of  vast 
imaginary  Utopias  in  the  future,  model  homes  in 
the  present,  the  light  and  beauty  of  which,  shining 
abroad,  would  give  higher  types  of  social  life  for 
common  emulation. 

Ah,  if  the  Genius  of  Social  Eeforra  would  only 
take  her  stand  centrally !  If  she  would  make  the 
regeneration  of  homes  the  great  achievement  of 
our  day,  then  would  she  indeed  come  with  promise 
and  blessing.  But,  alas !  she  is  so  far  vagrant  in 
her  habits — -a  fortune-telling  gipsy,  not  a  true,  lov- 
ing, useful  woman. 

Unhappily  for  Mrs.  Emerson,  it  was  the  weird- 
eyed,  fortune-telling  gipsy  whose  Delphic  utter 
ances  had  bewildered  her  mind. 

The  reconciliation  which  followed  the  Christmas- 
time troubles  of  Irene  and  her  husband  had  given 
both  more  prudent  self-control.  They  guarded 
themselves  with  a  care  that  threw  around  the  man- 
ner of  each  a  certain  reserve  which  was  often  felt 
by  the  other  as  coldness.  To  both  this  was,  in  a 
degree,  painful.  There  was  tender  love  in  their 
hearts,  but  it  was  overshadowed  by  self-will  and 
false  ideas  of  independence  on  the  one  side,  and  by 
a  brooding  spirit  of  accusation  and  unaccustomed 


172  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

restraint  on  the  other.  Many  times,  each  day  of 
their  lives,  did  words  and  sentiments,  just  about  to 
be  uttered  by  Hartley  Emerson,  die  unspoken,  lest 
in  them  something  might  appear  which  would  stir 
the  quick  feelings  of  Irene  into  antagonism. 

There  was  no  guarantee  of  happiness  in  such  a 
state  of  things.  Mutual  forbearance  existed,  not 
from  self-discipline  and  tender  love,  but  from  fear 
of  consequences.  They  were  burnt  children,  and 
dreaded,  as  well  they  might,  the  fire. 

With  little  change  in  their  relations  to  each 
other,  and  few  events  worthy  of  notice,  a  year  went 
by.  Mr.  Delancy  came  down  to  New  York  sev- 
eral times  during  this  period,  spending  a  few  days 
at  each  visit,  while  Irene  went  frequently  to  Ivy 
Cliff,  and  stayed  there,  occasionally,  as  long  as  two 
or  three  weeks.  Hartley  always  came  up  from  the 
city  while  Irene  was  at  her  father's,  but  never 
stayed  longer  than  a  single  day,  business  requiring 
him  to  be  at  his  office  or  in  court.  Mr.  Delancy 
never  saw  them  together  without  closely  observing 
their  manner,  tone  of  speaking  and  language. 
Both,  he  could  see,  were  maturing  rapidly.  Irene 
had  changed  most.  There  was  a  style  of  thinking, 
a  familiarity  with  popular  themes  and  a  wroraanly 
confidence  in  her  expression  of  opinions  that  at 
times  surprised  him.  With  her  views  on  some 
subjects  his  own  mind  was  far  from  being  in  agree- 
ment, and  they  often  had  warm  argument?.  Oc- 
casionally, when  her  husband  was  at  Ivy  Cliff,  a 


WEARY  OF  CONSTRAINT.  173 

difference  of  sentiment  would  arise  between  them. 
Mr.  Delancy  noticed,  when  this  was  the  case,  that 
Irene  always  pressed  her  view  with  ardor,  and  that 
her  husband,  after  a  brief  but  pleasant  combat,  re- 
tired from  the  field.  He  also  noticed  that  in  most 
cases,  after  this  giving  up  of  the  contest  by  Hart- 
ley, he  was  more  than  usually  quiet  and  seemed  to 
be  pondering  things  not  wholly  agreeable. 

Mr.  Delancy  was  gratified  to  see  that  there  was 
no  jarring  between  them.  But  he  failed  not  at  the 
same  time  to  notice  something  else  that  gave  him 
uneasiness.  The  warmth  of  feeling,  the  tender- 
ness, the  lover-like  ardor  which  displayed  itself  in 
the  beginning,  no  longer  existed.  They  did  not 
even  show  that  fondness  for  each  other  which  is  so 
beautiful  a  trait  in  young  married  partners.  And 
yet  he  could  trace  no  signs  of  alienation.  The 
truth  was,  the  action  of  their  lives  had  been  inhar- 
monious. Deep  down  in  their  hearts  there  was  no 
defect  of  love.  But  this  love  was  compelled  to 
hide  itself  away ;  and  so,  for  the  most  part,  it  lay 
concealed  from  even  their  own  consciousness. 

During  the  second  year  of  their  married  life 
there  came  a  change  of  state  in  both  Irene  and  her 
husband.  They  had  each  grown  weary  of  con- 
straint when  together.  It  was  irksome  to  be  al- 
ways on  guard,  lest  some  word,  tone  or  act  should 
be  misunderstood.  In  consequence,  old  collisions 
were  renewed,  and  Hartley  often  grew  impatient 
and  even  contemptuous  toward  his  wife,  when  she 


174  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

ventured  to  speak  of  social  progress,  woman's 
rights,  or  any  of  the  kindred  themes  in  which  she 
still  took  a  warm  interest.  Angry  retort  usually 
followed  on  these  occasions,  and  periods  of  coldness 
ensued,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  produce  states 
of  alienation. 

If  a  babe  had  come  to  soften  the  heart  of  Irene, 
to  turn  thought  and  feeling  in  a  new  direction,  to' 
awaken  a  mother's  love  with  all  its  holy  tender- 
ness, how  different  would  all  have  been  ! — different 
with  her,  and  different  with  him.  There  would 
then  have  been  an  object  on  which  both  could  cen- 
tre interest  and  affection,  and  thus  draw  lovingly 
together  again,  and  feel,  as  in  the  beginning,  heart 
beating  to  heart  in  sweet  accordings.  They  would 
have  learned  their  love-lessons  over  again,  and  un- 
derstood their  meanings  better.  Alas  that  the 
angels  of  infancy  found  no  place  in  their  dwelling! 

With  no  central  attraction  at  home,  her  thoughts 
stimulated  by  association  with  a  class  of  intellect- 
ual, restless  women,  who  were  wandering  on  life's 
broad  desert  in  search  of  green  places  and  refresh- 
ing springs,  each  day's  journey  bearing  them  far- 
ther and  farther  away  from  landscapes  of  perpetual 
verdure,  Irene  grew  more  and  more  interested  in 
subjects  that  lay  for  the  most  part  entirely  out  of 
the  range  of  her  husband's  sympathies;  while  he 
was  becoming  more  deeply  absorbed  in  a  profession 
that  required  close  application  of  thought,  intellect- 
ual force  and  clearness,  and  cold,  practical  modes 


WEARY  OF  CONSTRAINT.  175 

of  looking  at  all  questions  that  came  np  for  con- 
sideration. The  consequence  was  that  they  were, 
in  all  their  common  interests,  modes  of  thinking 
and  habits  of  regarding  the  affairs  of  life,  steadily 
receding  from  each  other.  Their  evenings  were 
now  less  frequently  spent  together.  If  home  had 
been  a  pleasant  place  to  him,  Mr.  Emerson  would 
have  usually  remained  at  home  after  the  day's  du- 
ties were  over;  or,  if  he  went  abroad,  it  would 
have  been  usually  in  company  with  his  wife.  But 
home  was  getting  to  be  dull,  if  not  positively  dis- 
agreeable. If  a  conversation  was  started,  it  soon 
involved  disagreement  in  sentiment,  and  then  came 
argument,  and  perhaps  ungentle  words,  followed 
by  silence  and  a  mutual  writing  down  in  the  mind 
of  bitter  things.  If  there  was  no  conversation, 
Irene  buried  herself  in  a  book — some  absorbing 
novel,  usually  of  the  heroic  school. 

Naturally,  under  this  state  of  things,  Mr.  Emer- 
son, who  was  social  in  disposition,  sought  compan- 
ionship elsewhere,  and  with  his  own  sex.  Brought 
into  contact  with  men  of  different  tastes,  feelings 
and  habits  of  thinking,  he  gradually  selected  a  few 
as  intimate  friends,  and,  in  association  with  these, 
formed,  as  his  wife  was  doing,  a  social  point  of  in- 
terest outside  of  his  home;  thus  widening  still 
further  the  space  between  them. 

The  home  duties  involved  in  housekeeping,  in- 
differently as  they  had  always  been  discharged  by 
It-eue,  were  now  becoming  more  and  more  distaste- 


176  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

ful  to  her.  This  daily  care  about  mere  eating  and 
drinking  seemed  unworthy  of  a  woman  who  had 
noble  aspirations,  such  as  bflrned  in  her  breast. 
That  was  work  for  women-drudges  who  had  no 
higher  ambition  ;  "  and  Heaven  knows,"  she  would 
often  say  to  herself,  "  there  are  enough  and  to  spare 
of  these." 

"  What's  the  use  of  keeping  up  an  establishment 
like  this  just  for  two  people?"  she  would  often 
remark  to  her  husband ;  and  he  would  usually 
reply, 

"  For  the  sake  of  having  a  home  into  which  one 
may  retire  and  shut  out  the  world." 

Irene  would  sometimes  suggest  the  lighter  ex- 
pense of  boarding. 

"  If  it  cost  twice  as  much  I  would  prefer  to  live 
in  my  own  house,"  was  the  invariable  answer. 

"  But  see  what  a  burden  of  care  it  lays  on  my 
shoulders." 

Now  Hartley  could  only  with  difficulty  repress 
a  word  of  impatient  rebuke  when  this  argument 
was  used.  He  thought  of  his  own  daily  devotion 
to  business,  prolonged  often  into  the  night,  when  an 
important  case  was  on  hand,  and  mentally  charged 
his  wife  with  a  selfish  love  of  ease.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  seemed  to  Irene  that  her  husband  was 
selfish  in  wishing  her  to  bear  the  burdens  of  house- 
keeping just  for  his  pleasure  or  convenience,  when 
they  might  live  as  comfortably  in  a  hotel  or  board- 
ing-house. 


WEARY  OF  CONSTRAINT.  177 

On  this  subject  Hartley  would  not  enter  into  a 
discussion.  "  It's  no  use  talking,  Irene,"  he  would 
say,  when  she  grew  in  earnest.  "You  cannot  tempt 
me  to  give  up  my  home.  It  includes  many  things 
that  with  me  are  essential  to  comfort.  I  detest 
boarding-houses ;  they  are  only  places  for  sojourn- 
ing, not  living." 

As   agreement  on  this  subject  was  out  of  the 
question,  Irene  did  not  usually  urge  considerations 
in  favor  of  abandoning  their  pleasant  home. 
11 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

GONE  FOR   EVER1 

NE  evening — it  was  nearly  three  years  from 
the  date  of  their  marriage — Hartley  Emerson 
and  his  wife  were  sitting  opposite  to  each 
other  at  the  centre-table,  in  the  evening. 
She  had  a  book  in  her  hand  and  he  held  a  news- 
paper before  his  face,  but  his  eyes  were  not  on  the 
printed  columns.  He  had  spoken  only  a  few  words 
since  he  came  in,  and  his  wife  noticed  that  he  had 
the  manner  of  one  whose  mind  is  in  doubt  or  per- 
plexity. 

Letting  the  newspaper  fall  upon  the  table  at 
length,  Hartley  looked  over  at  his  wife  and  said, 
in  a  quiet  tone, 

"  Irene,  did  you  ever  meet  a  lady  by  the  name 
of  Mrs.  Lloyd?" 

The  color  mounted  to  the  face  of  Mrs.  Emerson 
as  she  replied, 

"  Yes,  I  have  met  her  often." 

"Since  when?" 

"  I  have  known  her  intimately  for  the  past  two 
years." 

"What!" 

Emerson  started  to  his  feet  and  looked  for  some 


GONE  FOE  EVER!  17S 

moments  steadily  at  his  wife,  his  countenance  ex- 
pressing the  profoundest  astonishment. 

"And  never  once  mentioned  to  me  her  name  I 
Has  she  ever  called  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Often?" 

"  As  often  as  two  or  three  times  a  week." 

"  Irene !" 

Mrs.  Emerson,  bewildered  at  first  by  her  hus- 
band's manner  of  interrogating  her,  now  recovered 
her  self-possession,  and,  rising,  looked  steadily  at 
him  across  the  table. 

"  I  am  wholly  at  a  loss  to  understand  you,"  she 
now  said,  calmly. 

"Have  you  ever  visited  that  person  at  her 
boarding-house?"  demanded  Hartley. 

"  I  have,  often." 

"And  walked  Broadway  with  her?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Good  heavens  !  can  it  be  possible !"  exclaimed 
the  excited  man. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Irene,  "  who  is  Mrs.  Lloyd  ?" 

"  An  infamous  woman  !"  was  answered  passion- 
ately. 

"  That  is  false !"  said  Irene,  her  eyes  flashing  as 
she  spoke.  "  I  don't  care  who  says  so,  I  pronounce 
the  words  false I" 

Hartley  stood  still  and  gazed  at  his  wife  for  some 
moments  without  speaking;  then  he  sat  down  at 
the  table  from  which  he  had  arisen  and,  shading 


1 80  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

his  face  with  his  hands,  remained  motionless  for  a 
long  time.  He  seemed  like  a  man  utterly  con- 
founded. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Jane  Beaufort  ?"  he  asked 
at  length,  looking  up  at  his  wife. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  everybody  has  heard  of  her." 

"  Would  you  visit  Jane  Beaufort  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  I  believed  her  innocent  of  what  the 
world  charges  against  her." 

"  You  are  aware,  then,  that  Mrs.  Lloyd  and  Jane 
Beaufort  are  the  same  person  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  not  aware  of  any  such  thing." 

"  It  is  true." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it.  Mrs.  Lloyd  I  have  known 
intimately  for  over  two  years,  and  can  verify  her 
character." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  then,  for  a  viler  character 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  outside  the  haunts  of 
infamy,"  said  Emerson. 

Contempt  and  anger  were  suddenly  blended  in 
his  manner. 

"  I  cannot  hear  one  to  whom  I  am  warmly  at- 
tached thus  assailed.  You  must  not  speak  in  that 
style  of  my  friends,  Hartley  Emerson  !" 

'•  Your  friends !"  There  was  a  look  of  intense 
§corn  on  his  face.  "  Precious  friends,  if  she  repre- 
&snt  them,  truly  !  Major  Willard  is  another,  may- 
hap?" 

The  face  of  Irene  turned  deadly  pale  at  the 
mention  of  this  name. 


GONE  FOE  EVER!  181 

"Ha!" 

Emerson  bent  eagerly  toward  his  wife. 

"And  is  that  true,  also?" 

"What?  Speak  out,  sir!"  Irene  caught  her 
1  eath,  and  grasped  the  rein  of  self-control  which 
h  d  dropped,  a  moment,  from  her  hands. 

'*  It  is  said  that  Major  Willard  bears  you  corn- 
pa  jy,  at  times,  in  your  rides  home  from  evening 
cai  5  upon  your  precious  friends." 

<  And  you  believe  the  story?" 

*  [  didn't  believe  it,"  said  Hartley,  but  in  a  tone 
tha(  showed  doubt. 

" .  »ut  have  changed  your  mind  ?" 

"  3  '  you  say  it  is  not  true — that  Major  Willard 
never  entered  your  carriage — I  will  take  your  word 
in  opposition  to  the  whole  world's  adverse  testi- 
mony." 

But  Irene  could  not  answer.  Major  Willard,  as 
the  reader  knows,  had  ridden  with  her  at  night, 
and  alone.  But  once,  and  only  once.  A  few  times 
since  then  she  had  encountered,  but  never  deigned 
to  recognize,  him.  In  her  pure  heart  the  man  was 
held  in  utter  detestation. 

Now  was  the  time  for  a  full  explanation;  but 
pride  was  aroused — strong,  stubborn  pride.  She 
knew  herself  to  stand  triple  mailed  in  innocency — 
to  be  free  from  weakness  or  taint ;  and  the  thought 
that  a  mean,  base  suspicion  had  entered  the  mind 
of  her  husband  aroused  her  indignation  and  put  a 
seal  upon  her  Jips  as  to  all  explanatory  utterances. 


182  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Then  I  am  to  believe  the  worst  ?"  said  Hartley, 
seeing  that  his  wife  did  not  answer.  "  The  worst, 
and  of  you !" 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said,  as  well  as  the 
words  themselves,  sent  a  strong  throb  to  the  heart 
of  Irene.  "  The  worst,  and  of  you  !"  This  from 
her  husband !  and  involving  far  more  in  tone  and 
manner  than  in  uttered  language.  "  Then  I  am  to 
believe  the  worst  I"  She  turned  the  sentences  over 
in  her  mind.  Pride,  wounded  self-love,  a  smoth- 
ered sense  of  indignation,  blind  anger,  began  to 
gather  their  gloomy  forces  in  her  mind.  "  The 
worst,  and  of  you!"  How  the  echoes  of  these 
words  came  back  in  constant  repetition!  "The 
worst,  and  of  you  !" 

"  How  often  has  Major  Willard  ridden  with  you 
at  night  ?"  asked  Hartley,  in  a  cold,  resolute  way. 

No  answer. 

"And  did  you  always  come  directly  home?" 

Hartley  Emerson  was  looking  steadily  into  the 
face  of  his  wife,  from  which  he  saw  the  color  fall 
away  until  it  became  of  an  ashen  line. 

"  You  do  not  care  to  answer.  Well,  silence  is 
significative,"  said  the  husband,  closing  his  lips 
firmly.  There  was  a  blending  of  anger,  perplexity, 
pain,  sorrow  and  scorn  in  bis  face,  all  of  which 
]rene  read  distinctly  as  she  fixed  her  eyes  steadily 
upon  him.  He  tried  to  gaze  back  nntil  her  eyes 
should  sink  beneath  his  steady  look,  but  the  effort 
was  lost;  for  not  a  single  instant  did  they  waver. 


GONE  FOR  EVER!  183 

lie  was  about  turning  away,  when  she  arrested  the 
movement  by  saying, 

"  Go  on,  Hartley  Emerson  !  Speak  of  all  that 
is  in  your  mind.  You  have  now  an  opportunity 
that  may  never  come  again." 

There  was  a  dead  level  in  her  voice  that  a  little 
puzzled  her  husband. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  speak,"  he  answered.  "  I 
have  put  my  interrogatories." 

Unhappily,  there  was  a  shade  of  imperiousness 
in  his  voice. 

"  I  never  answer  insulting  interrogatories ;  not 
even  from  the  man  who  calls  himself  my  husband," 
replied  Irene,  haughtily. 

"  It  may  be  best  for  you  to  answer,"  said  Hart- 
ley. There  was  just  the  shadow  of  menace  in  his 
tones. 

"  Best !"  The  lip  of  Irene  curled  slightly.  "  On 
whose  account,  pray  ?" 

"  Best  for  each  of  us.  Whatever  affects  one  in- 
juriously must  affect  both." 

"  Humph  !  So  we  are  equals  !"  Irene  tossed 
her  head  impatiently,  and  laughed  a  short,  mock- 
ing laugh. 

"  Nothing  of  that,  if  you  please !"  was  the  hus- 
band's impatient   retort.     The  sudden  change  in 
his  wife's  manner  threw  him  off  his  guard. 
.    "Nothing  of  what?"  demanded  Irene. 

"  Of  that  weak,  silly  nonsense.  We  have  graver 
matters  in  hand  for  consideration  now." 


184  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"Ah?*'  She  threw  up  her  eyebrows,  then  con- 
tracted them  again  with  an  angry  severity. 

"  Irene,"  said  Mr.  Emerson,  his  voice  falling 
into  a  calm  but  severe  tone,  "all  this  is  but 
weakness  and  folly.  I  have  heard  things  touching 
your  good  name — " 

"  And  believe  them,"  broke  in  Irene,  with  angry 
impatience. 

"  I  have  said  nothing  as  to  belief  or  disbelief. 
The  fact  is  grave  enough." 

"And  you  have  illustrated  your  faith  in  the 
slander — beautifully,  becomingly,  generously !" 

"  Irene !" 

"  Generously,  as  a  man  who  knew  his  wife.  Ah, 
well !"  This  last  ejaculation  was  made  almost 
Ughtly,  but  it  involved  great  bitterness  of  spirit. 

"  Do  not  speak  any  longer  after  this  fashion," 
said  Hartley,  with  considerable  irritation  of  man- 
ner ;  "  it  doesn't  suit  my  present  temper.  I  want 
something  in  a  very  different  spirit.  The  matter 
is  of  too  serious  import.  So  pray  lay  aside  your 
trifling.  I  came  to  you  as  I  had  a  right  to  come, 
and  made  inquiries  touching  your  associations  when 
not  in  my  company.  Your  answers  are  not  satis- 
factory, but  tend  rather  to  con — " 

"Sir!"  Irene  interrupted  him  in  a  stern,  deep 
voice,  which  came  so  suddenly  that  the  word  re- 
mained unspoken.  Then,  raising  her  finger  in  a 
warning  manner,  she  said  with  menace, 

"Beware  I" 


GONE  FOR  EVER!  185 

For  some  moments  they  stood  looking  at  each 
other,  more  like  two  animals  at  bay  than  husband 
and  wife. 

"Touching  my  associations  when  not  in  your 
company  ?"  said  Irene  at  length,  repeating  his 
language  slowly. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  husband. 

"  Touching  my  associations  ?  Well,  Mr.  Emer- 
son— so  far,  I  say  well."  She  was  collected  in 
manner  and  her  voice  steady.  "But  \vhat  touch- 
ing your  associations  when  not  in  my  company  ?" 

The  very  novelty  of  this  interrogation  caused 
Emerson  to  start  and  change  color. 

"Ha!"  The  blood  leaped  to  the  forehead  of 
Irene,  and  her  eyes,  dilating  suddenly,  almost  glared 
upon  the  face  of  her  husband. 

"  Well,  sir  f"  Irene  drew  her  slender  form  to  its 
utmost  height.  There  was  an  impatient,  demand- 
ing tone  in  her  voice.  "  Speak  !"  she  added,  with- 
out change  of  manner.  "What  touching  your 
associations  when  not  in  my  company  ?  As  a  wife, 
I  have  some  interest  in  this  matter.  Away  from 
home  often  until  the  brief  hours,  have  I  no  right 
to  put  the  question — where  and  with  whom?  It, 
would  seem  so  if  we  are  equal.  But  if  I  am  the 
slave  and  dependant — the  creature  of  your  will 
and  pleasure — why,  that  alters  the  case !" 

"  Have  you  done  ?" 

Emerson  was  recovering  from  his  surprise,  but 
not  gaining  clear  sight  or  prudent  self-possession. 


186  AFTER   THE  STOR3T. 

"You  have  not  answered,"  said  Irene,  looking 
coldly,  but  with  glittering  eyes,  into  his  face. 
"  Come !  If  there  is  to  be  a  mutual  relation  of 
acts  and  associations  outside  of  this  our  home,  let 
us  begin.  Sit  down,  Hartley,  and  compose  your- 
self. You  are  the  man,  and  claim  precedence.  I 
yield  the  prerogative.  So  let  me  have  your  con- 
fession. After  you  have  ended  I  will  give  as  faith- 
ful a  narrative  as  if  on  my  death-bed.  What  more 
can  you  ask  ?  There  now,  lead  the  way  !" 

This  coolness,  which  but  thinly  veiled  a  con- 
temptuous air,  irritated  Hartley  almost  beyond  the 
hounds  of  decent  self-control. 

"Bravely  carried  off!  "Well  acted!"  he  re- 
torted with  a  sneer. 

"  You  do  not  accept  the  proposal,"  said  Irene, 
growing  a  little  sterner  of  aspect.  "  Very  well.  I 
scarcely  hoped  that  you  would  meet  me  on  this 
even  ground.  Why  should  I  have  hoped  it? 
Were  the  antecedents  encouraging  ?  No  !  But  I 
am  sorry.  Ah,  well !  Husbands  are  free  to  go 
and  come  at  their  own  sweet  will — to  associate  with 
anybody  and  everybody.  But  wives — oh  dear  !'' 

She  tossed  her  head  in  a  wild,  scornful  way,  as 
if  on  the  verge  of  being  swept  from  her  feet  by 
some  whirlwind  of  passion. 

"  And  so,"  said  her  husband,  after  a  long  silence, 
"you  do  not  choose  to  answer  my  qi  cstions  as  to 
Major  Willard?" 

•That  was  unwisely  pressed.     In   her  heart  of 


GONE  FOE  EVER!  187 

hearts  Irene  loathed  this  man.  His  name  was  an 
offence  to  her.  Never,  since  the  night  he  had 
forced  himself  into  her  carriage,  had  she  even 
looked  into  his  face.  If  he  appeared  in  the  room 
where  she  happened  to  be,  she  did  not  permit  her 
eyes  to  rest  upon  his  detested  countenance.  If  he 
drew  near  to  her,  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  his 
presence.  If  he  spoke  to  her,  as  he  had  ventured 
several  times  to  do,  she  paid  no  regard  to  him 
whatever.  So  far  as  any  response  or  manifestation 
of  feeling  on  her  part  was  concerned,  it  was  as  if 
his  voice  had  not  reached  her  ears.  The  very 
thought  of  this  man  was  a  foul  thing  in  her  mind. 
No  wonder  that  the  repeated  reference  by  her  hus- 
band was  felt  as  a  stinging  insult. 

"  If  you  dare  to  mention  that  name  again  in 
connection  with  mine,"  she  said,  turning  almost 
fiercely  upon  him,  "  I  will  — " 

She  caught  the  words  and  held  them  back  in  the 
silence  of  her  wildly  reeling  thoughts. 

"  Say  on !" 

Emerson  was  cool,  but  not  sane.  It  was  mad- 
ness to  press  his  excited  young  wife  now.  Had  he 
lost  sense  and  discrimination  ?  Could  he  not  see, 
in  her  strong,  womanly  indignation,  the  sfgns  »f  in- 
nocence? Fool !  fool !  to  thrust  sharply  at  her  now ! 

"  My  father !"  came  in  a  sudden  gush  of  strong: 
feeling  from  the  lips  of  Irene,  as  the  thought  of 
him  whose  name  was  thus  ejaculated  came  into  her 
mind.  She  struck  her  hands  together,  and  stood 


188  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

like  one  in  wild  bewilderment.  "  My  father !"  she 
added,  almost  mournfully ;  "  oh,  that  I  had  never 
left  you !" 

"  It  would  have  been  better  for  you  and  better 
for  me."  No,  he  was  not  sane,  else  would  no  such 
words  have  fallen  from  his  lips. 

Irene,  with  a  slight  start  and  a  slight  change  in 
the  expression  of  her  countenance,  looked  up  at 
her  husband : 

"You  think  so?"  Emerson  was  a  little  sur- 
prised at  the  way  in  which  Irene  put  this  interro- 
gation. He  looked  for  a  different  reply. 

"  I  have  said  it,"  was  his  cold  answer. 

"  Well."  She  said  no  more,  but  looked  down 
and  sat  thinking  for  the  space  of  more  than  a 
minute. 

"  I  will  go  back  to  Ivy  Cliff."  She  looked  up, 
with  something  strange  in  the  expression  of  her 
face.  It  was  a  blank,  unfeeling,  almost  unmeaning 
expression. 

"  Well."     It  was  Emerson's  only  response. 

"  Well ;  and  that  is  all  ?"  Her  tones  were  so 
chilling  that  they  came  over  the  spirit  of  her  hus- 
band like  the  low  waves  of  an  icy  wind. 

"  No,  that  is  not  all."  What  evil  spirit  was 
blinding  his  perceptions?  What  evil  influence 
pressing  him  on  to  the  brink  of  ruin? 

"Say  on."  How  strangely  cold  and  calm  she 
remained  !  "  Say  on,"  she  repeated.  Was  there 
none  to  warn  him  of  danger  ? 


GONE  FOR  EVER!  189 

"  If  you  go  a  third  time  to  )  our  father — "  He 
paused. 

"  Well  ?"  There  was  not  a  quiver  in  her  low, 
clear,  icy  tone. 

"  You  must  do  it  with  your  eyes  open,  and  iu 
full  view  of  the  consequences." 

"  What  are  the  consequences  ?" 

Beware,  rash  man !  Put  a  seal  on  your  lips ! 
Do  not  let  the  thought  so  sternly  held  find  even  a 
shadow  of  utterance ! 

"  Speak,  Hartley  Emerson.  What  are  the  con- 
sequences ?" 

"  You  cannot  return !"  It  was  said  without  a 
quiver  of  feeling. 

"  Well."  She  looked  at  him  with  an  unchanged 
countenance,  steadily,  coldly,  piercingly. 

"I  have  said  the  words,  Irene;  and  they  are  no 
idle  utterances.  Twice  you  have  left  me,  but  you 
cannot  do  it  a  third  time  and  leave  a  way  open  be- 
tween us.  Go,  then,  if  you  will ;  but,  if  we  part 
here,  it  must  be  for  ever !" 

The  eyes  of  Irene  dropped  slowly.  There  was 
a  slight  change  in  the  expression  of  her  face.  Her 
hands  moved  one  within  the  other  nervously. 

For  ever !  The  words  are  rarely  uttered  without, 
leaving  on  the  mind  a  shade  of  thought.  For  ever ! 
They  brought  more  than  a  simple  shadow  to  the 
mind  of  Irene.  A  sudden  darkness  fell  upon  her 
soul,  and  for  a  little  while  she  groped  about  like 
one  who  had  lost  her  way.  But  her  husband's 


1 90  A  FTER  TUK  STORM. 

threat  of  consequences,  his  cold,  imperious  man- 
ner, his  assumed  superiority,  all  acted  as  sharp 
spurs  to  pride,  and  she  stood  up,  strong  again,  in 
full  mental  stature,  with  every  power  of  her  being 
in  full  force  for  action  and  endurance. 

"  I  go."  There  was  no  sign  of  weakness  in  her 
voice.  She  had  raised  her  eyes  from  the  floor  and 
turned  them  full  upon  her  husband.  Her  face 
was  not  so  pale  as  it  had  been  a  little  while  before. 
Warmth  had  come  back  to  the  delicate  skin,  flush- 
ing it  with  beauty.  She  did  not  stand  before  him 
an  impersonation  of  anger,  dislike  or  rebellion. 
There  was  not  a  repulsive  attitude  or  expression ; 
no  flashing  of  the  eyes,  nor  even  the  cold,  diamond 
glitter  seen  a  little  while  before.  Slowly  turning 
away,  she  left  the  room ;  but,  to  her  husband,  she 
seemed  still  standing  there,  a  lovely  vision.  There 
had  fallen,  in  that  instant  of  time,  a  sunbeam  which 
fixed  the  image  upon  his  memory  in  imperishable 
colors.  What  though  he  parted  company  here 
with  the  vital  form,  that  effigy  would  be,  through 
all  time,  his  inseparable  companion  ! 

"  Gone  I"  Hartley  Emerson  held  his  breath  as 
the  word  came  into  mental  utterance.  There  was 
a  motion  of  regret  in  his  heart ;  a  wish  that  he  had 
not  spoken  quite  so  sternly — that  he  had  kept  back 
a  part  of  the  hard  saying.  But  it  was  too  late 
now.  He  could  not,  after  all  that  had  just  passed 
between  them — after  she  had  refused  to  answer  his 
questions  touching  Major  Willard — make  any  con- 


GONE  FOR   EVER!  191 

cessions.  Come  what  would,  there  was  to  be  no 
retracing  of  steps  now. 

"And  it  may  be  as  well/'  said  he,  rallying  him- 
self, "that  we  part  here.  Our  experiment  has 
proved  a  sad  failure.  We  grow  colder  and  more 
repel lant  each  day,  instead  of  drawing  closer  to- 
gether and  becoming  more  lovingly  assimilated. 
It  is  not  good — this  life — for  either  of  us.  We 
struggle  in  our  bonds  and  hurt  each  other.  Better 
apart !  better  apart !  Moreover" — his  face  dark- 
ened— "she  has  fallen  into  dangerous  companion- 
ship, and  will  not  be  advised  or  governed.  I  have 
heard  her  name  fall  lightly  from  lips  that  cannot 
utter  a  woman's  name  without  leaving  it  soiled. 
She  is  pure  now — pure  as  snow.  I  have  not  a 
shadow  of  suspicion,  though  I  pressed  her  close. 
But  this  contact  is  bad ;  she  is  breathing  an  impure 
atmosphere;  she  is  assorting  with  some  who  are 
sensual  and  evil-minded,  though  she  will  not  be- 
lieve the  truth.  Mrs.  Lloyd !  Gracious  heavens  ! 
My  wife  the  intimate  companion  of  that  woman ! 
Seen  with  her  in  Broadway !  A  constant  visitor 
at  my  house !  This,  and  I  knew  it  not !" 

Emerson  grew  deeply  agitated  as  he  rehearsed 
these  things.  It  was  after  midnight  when  he  re- 
tired. He  did  not  go  to  his  wife's  apartment,  but 
passed  to  a  room  in  the  story  above  that  in  which 
he  usually  slept. 

Day  was  abroad  when  Emerson  awoke  the  next 
morning,  and  the  sun  shining  from  an  angle  that 


192  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

showed  him  to  be  nearly  two  hours  above  tut  horl 
zon.  It  was  late  for  Mr.  Emerson.  Rising  hur- 
riedly, and  in  some  confusion  of  thought,  be  went 
down  stairs.  His  mind,  as  the  events  of  the  last 
evening  began  to  adjust  themselves,  felt  an  increas- 
ing sense  of  oppression.  How  was  he  to  meet 
Irene?  or  was  he  to  meet  her  again?  Had  she 
relented  ?  Had  a  night  of  sober  reflection  wrought 
any  change?  Would  she  take  the  step  he  had 
warned  her  as  a  fatal  one  ? 

With  such  questions  crowding  upon  him,  Hart- 
ley Emerson  went  down  stairs.  In  passing  their 
chamber-door  he  saw  that  it  stood  wide  open,  and 
that  Irene  was  not  there.  He  descended  to  the 
parlors  and  to  the  sitting-room,  but  did  not  find 
her.  The  bell  announced  breakfast ;  he  might  find 
her  at  the  table.  No — she  wTas  not  at  her  usual 
place  when  the  morning  meal  was  served. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Emerson  ?"  he  asked  of  the 
waiter. 

''  I  have  not  seen  her,"  was  replied. 

Mr.  Emerson  turned  away  and  went  up  to  their 
chambers.  His  footsteps  had  a  desolate,  echoing 
sound  to  his  ears,  as  he  bent  his  way  thither.  He 
looked  through  the  front  and  then  through  the  back 
chamber,  and  even  called,  faintly,  the  name  of  his 
wife.  But  all  was  still  as  death.  Now  a  small 
envelope  caught^his  eye,  resting  on  a  casket  in 
which  Irene  had  kept  her  jewelry.  He  lifted  it, 
and  saw  his  name  inscribed  thereon.  The  hand- 


GONE  FOR  EVER!  193 

writing  was  not  strange.     He  broke  the  seal  and 
read  these  few  words : 

"  I  have  gone.  IRENE." 

The  narrow  piece  of  tinted  paper  on  which  this 
was  written  dropped  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and 
he  stood  for  some  moments  still  as  if  death-stricken, 
and  rigid  as  stone. 

"Well,"  he  said  audibly,  at  length,  stepping 
across  the  floor,  "  and  so  the  end  has  come !" 

He  moved  to  the  full  length  of  the  chamber  and 
then  stood  still — turned,  in  a  little  while,  and 
walked  slowly  back  across  the  floor — stood  still 
again,  his  face  bent  down,  his  lips  closely  shut,  his 
finger-ends  gripped  into  the  palms. 

"  Gone !"  He  tried  t-)  shake  himself  free  of  the 
partial  stupor  which  had  fallen  upon  him.  "Gone!" 
he  repeated.  "  And  so  this  calamity  is  upon  us ! 
She  has  dared  the  fatal  leap  !  has  spoken  the  irrevo- 
cable decree !  God  help  us  both,  for  both  have  need 
of  help ;  I  and  she,  but  she  most.  God  help  her 
to  bear  the  burden  she  has  lifted  to  her  weak 
shoulders ;  she  will  find  it  a  match  for  her  strength. 
I  shall  go  into  the  world  and  bury  myself  in  its 
cares  and  duties — shall  find,  at  least,  in  the  long 
days  a  compensation  in  work — earnest,  absorbing, 
exciting  work.  But  she?  Poor  Irene!  The  days 
and  nights  will  be  to  her  equally  desolate.  Poor 
Irene !  Poor  Irene  !" 

13 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

YOUNG,  BUT   WISE. 

'HE  night  had  passed  wearily  for  Mr.  Delancy, 
broken  by  fitful  dreams,  in  which  the  image 
of  his  daughter  was  always  present — dreams 
that  he  could  trace  to  no  thoughts  or  impress- 
ions of  the  day  before;  and  he  arose  unrefreshed, 
and  with  a  vague  sense  of  trouble  in  his  heart, 
lying  there  like  a  weight  which  no  involuntary 
deep  inspirations  would  lessen  or  remove.  No 
June  day  ever  opened  in  fresher  beauty  than  did 
this  one,  just  four  years  since  the  actors  in  our 
drama  came  smiling  before  us,  in  the  flush  of  youth 
and  hope  and  confidence  in  the  far-oif  future.  The 
warmth  of  early  summer  had  sent  the  nourishing 
sap  to  every  delicate  twig  and  softly  expanding 
leaf  until,  full  foliaged,  the  trees  around  Ivy  Cliff 
stood  in  kingly  attire,  lifting  themselves  up  grandly 
in  the  sunlight  which  flooded  their  gently-waving 
tops  in  waves  of  golden  glory,.  The  air  was  soft 
and  of  crystal  clearness ;  and  the  lungs  drank  it  in 
as  if  the  draught  were  ethereal  nectar. 

On  such  a  morning  in   June,  after  a  night  of 
broken  and  unrefreshing  sleep,  Mr.  Delancy  walked 
forth,  with  that  strange  pressure  on  his  heart  which 
1M 


YOUNG,  BUT  WISE.  195 

he  had  been  vainly  endeavoring  to  push  aside  since 
the  singing  birds  awoke  him,  in  the  faint  auroral 
dawn,  with  their  joyous  welcome  to  the  coming 
day.  He  drew  in  long  draughts  of  the  delicious 
air;  expanded  his  chest;  moved  briskly  through 
the  garden ;  threw  his  arms  about  to  hurry  the 
sluggish  flow  of  blood  in  his  veins ;  looked  with 
constrained  admiration  on  the  splendid  landscape 
that  stretched  far  and  near  in  the  sweep  of  his 
vision  ;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  The  hand  still  lay 
heavy  upon  his  heart ;  he  could  not  get  it  removed. 

Returning  to  the  house,  feeling  more  uncomfort- 
able for  this  fruitless  effort  to  rise  above  what  he 
tried  to  call  an  unhealthy  depression  of  spirits  con- 
sequent on  some  morbid  state  of  the  body,  Mr. 
Delancy  was  entering  the  library,  when  a  fresh 
young  face  greeted  him  with  light  and  smiles. 

"  Good-morning,  Rose,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
as  his  face  brightened  in  the  glow  of  the  young 
girl's  happy  countenance.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you ;" 
and  he  took  her  hand  and  held  it  tightly. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Delancy.  When  did  you 
hear  from  Irene?" 

"  Ten  days  ago." 

"  She  was  well  ?" 

"Oh  yes.  Sit  down,  Rose;  there."  And  Mr. 
Delancy  drew  a  chair  before  the  sofa  for  his  young 
visitor,  and  took  a  seat  facing  her. 

"  I  haven't  had  a  letter  from  her  in  six  months," 
said  Rose,  a  sober  hue  falling  on  her  countenance. 


196  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  I  don't  think  she  is  quite  thoughtful  enough  of 
her  old  friends." 

"  And  too  thoughtful,  it  may  be,  of  new  ones," 
replied  Mr.  Delancy,  hia  voice  a  little  depressed 
from  the  cheerful  tone  in  which  he  had  welcomed 
his  young  visitor. 

"These  new  friends  are  not  always  the  best 
friends,  Mr.  Delancy." 

"  No,  Rose.  For  my  part,  I  wouldn't  give  one 
old  friend,  whose  heart  I  had  proved,  for  a  dozen 
untried  new  ones." 

"Nor  I,  Mr.  Delancy.  I  love  Irene.  I  have 
always  loved  her.  You  know  we  were  children 
together." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  all  that ;  and  I'm  not  pleased 
with  her  for  treating  you  with  so  much  neglect,  and 
all  for  a  set  of—" 

Mr.  Delancy  checked  himself. 

"Irene,"  said  Miss  Carman,  whom  the  reader 
will  remember  as  one  of  Mrs.  Emerson's  bride- 
maids,  "  has  been  a  little  unfortunate  in  her  Xew 
York  friends.  I'm  afraid  of  these  strong-minded 
women,  as  they  are  called,  among  whom  she  has 
fallen." 

"  I  detest  them  !"  replied  Mr.  Delancy,  with  sud- 
denly aroused  feelings.  "  They  have  done  my  child 
more  harm  than  they  will  ever  do  good  in  the  world 
by  way  of  atonement.  She  is  not  my  daughter  of 
old." 

"  I  found  her  greatly  changed  at  our  last  meet- 


YOUNG,  BUT  WISE.  197 

ing/'  said  Rose.  "  Full  of  vague  plans  of  reforms 
and  social  reorganizations,  and  impatient  of  oppo- 
sition, or  even  mild  argument,  against  her  favorite 
ideas." 

"  She  has  lost  her  way/'  sighed  the  old  man,  in 
a  1  )\v,  sad  voice,  "  and  I'm  afraid  it  will  take  her  a 
long,  long  time  to  get  back  again  to  the  old  true 
paths,  and  that  the  road  will  be  through  deep  suf- 
fering. I  dreamed  about  her  -all  night,  Rose,  and 
the  shadow  of  my  dreams  is  upon  me  still.  It  is 
foolish,  I  know,  but  I  cannot  get  my  heart  again 
into  the  sunlight." 

And  Rose  had  been  dreaming  troubled  dreams 
of  her  old  friend,  also ;  and  it  was  because  of  the 
pressure  that  lay  upon  her  feelings  that  she  had 
come  over  to  Ivy  Cliff*  this  morning  to  ask  if  Mr. 
Delancy  had  heard  from  Irene.  She  did  not,  how- 
ever, speak  of  this,  for  she  saw  that  he  was  in.  an 
unhappy  state  on  account  of  his  daughter. 

"Dreams  are  but  shadows/'  she  said,  forcing  a 
smile  to  her  lips  and  eyes. 

"Yes — yes."  The  old  man  responded  with  an 
abstracted  air.  "  Yes  ;  they  are  only  shadows. 
But,  my  dear,  was  there  ever  a  shadow  without  a 
substance  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  outside  world  of  nature.  Dreams 
are  unreal  things — the  fantastic  images  of  a  brain 
where  reason  sleeps." 

"  There  have  been  dreams  that  came  as  warnings 
Rose." 


198  A FTER  THE  ST  )  ILV. 

"And  a  thousand,  for  every  one  of  these,  that 
signified  nothing." 

"  True.  But  I  cannot  rise  out  of  these  shadows. 
They  lie  too  heavily  on  my  spirit.  You  must  bear 
with  me,  Rose.  Thank  you  for  coming  over  to  see 
me ;  but  I  cannot  make  your  visit  a  pleasant  one, 
and  you  must  leave  me  when  you  grow  weary  of 
the  old  man's  company." 

"Don't  talk  so,  Mr.  Dclancy.  I'm  glad  I  came 
over.  I  meant  this  only  for  a  call ;  but  as  you  aie 
in  such  poor  spirits  I  must  stay  a  while  and  cheer 
you  up." 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  taking 
the  hand  of  Rose,  "and  I  am  vexed  that  Irene 
should  neglect  you  for  the  false  friends  who  are 
leading  her  mind  astray.  But  never  mind,  dear; 
she  will  see  her  error  one  of  these  days,  and  learn 
to  prize  true  hearts." 

"  Is  she  going  to  spend  much  of  her  time  at  Ivy 
Cliff  this  summer?"  asked  Rose. 

"  She  is  coming  up  in  July  to  stay  three  or  four 
weeks." 

"  Ah  ?  I'm  pleased  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  shall 
then  revive  old-time  memories  in  her  heart." 

"God  grant  that  it  may  be  so!"  Rose  half 
started  at  the  solemn  tone  in  which  Mr.  Delancy 
spoke.  What  could  be  the  meaning  of  his  strangely 
troubled  manner?  Was  anything  seriously  wrong 
with  Irene?  She  remembered  the  confusion  into 
which  her  impulsive  conduct  had  thrown  Hie  wed- 


YOUNG,  BUT  WISE.  199 

ding-party;  and  there  was  a  vague  rumor  afloat 
that  Irene  had  left  her  husband  a  few  months  after- 
ward and  returned  to  Ivy  Cliff.  But  she  had  al- 
ways discredited  this  rumor.  Of  her  life  in  New 
York  she  knew  but  little  as  to  particulars:  That 
it  was  not  making  of  her  a  truer,  better,  happier 
woman,  nor  a  truer,  better,  happier  wife,  observa- 
tion had  long  ago  told  her. 

""  There  is  a  broad  foundation  of  good  principles 
in  her  character,"  said  Miss  Carman,  "and  this 
gives  occasion  for  hope  in  the  future.  She  will  not 
go  far  astray  with  her  wily  enticers,  who  have  only 
stimulated  and  given  direction,  for  a  time,  to  her 
undisciplined  impulses.  You  know  how  impatient 
she  has  always  been  under  control — how  restively 
her  spirit  has  chafed  itself  when  a  restraining  hand 
was  laid  upon  her.  But  there  are  real  things  in 
life  of  too  serious  import  to  he  set  aside  for  idle 
fancies,  such  as  her  new  friends  have  dignified  with 
imposing  names — real  things,  that  take  hold  upon 
the  solid  earth  like  anchors,  and  hold  the  vessel 
firm  amid  wildly  rushing  currents." 

"  Yes,  Rose,  I  know  all  that,"  replied  Mr.  De- 
lancy.  "  I  have  hope  in  the  future  of  Irene ;  but 
I  shudder  in  heart  to  think  of  the  rough,  thorny, 
desolate  ways  through  which  she  may  have  to  pass 
with  bleeding  feet  before  she  reaches  that  serene 
future.  Ah !  if  I  could  save  my  child  from  the 
pain  she  seems  resolute  on  plucking  down  and 
wearing  in  her  heart !" 


200  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

"  Your  dreams  have  made  you  gloomy,  Mr.  De- 
Jancy,"  said  Rose,  forcing  a  smile  to  her  sweet 
young  face.  "  Come  now,  let  us  be  more  hopeful. 
Irene  has  a  good  husband.  A  little  too  much  like 
her  in  some  things,  but  growing  manlier  and 
broader  in  mental  grasp,  if  I  have  read  him 
aright.  He  understands  Irene,  and,  what  is  more, 
'  loves  her  deeply.  I  have  watched  them  closely." 

"  So  have  I."  The  voice  of  Mr.  Delancy  was 
not  so  hopeful  as  that  of  his  companion. 

"  Still  looking  on  the  darker  side."  She  smiled 
again. 

"  Ah,  Rose,  my  wise  young  friend,"  said  Mr. 
Delancy,  "  to  whom  I  speak  my  thoughts  with  a 
freedom  that  surprises  even  myself,  a  father's  eyes 
read  many  signs  that  have  no  meaning  for  others." 

"And  many  read  them,  through  fond  suspicion, 
wrong,"  replied  Rose. 

"  Well — yes — that  may  be."  He  spoke  in  par- 
tial abstraction,  yet  doubtfully. 

"  I  must  look  through  your  garden,"  said  the 
young  lady,  rising;  "you  know  how  I  love 
flowers." 

"Not  much  yet  to  hold  your  admiration,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Delancy,  rising  also.  "June  gives  us 
wide  green  carpets  and  magnificent  draperies  of  the 
same  deep  color,  but  her  red  and  golden  broideries 
are  few;  it  is  the  hand  of  July  that  throws  them 
in  with  rich  profusion." 

"But  June  flower.5  are  sweetest  and  dearestr— 


YOUNG,  BUT  WISE.  201 

tender  nurslings  of  the  summer,  first-born  of  her 
love,"  said  Rose,  as  they  stepped  out  into  the  por- 
tico. "  It  may  be  that  the  eye  gets  sated  with 
beauty,  as  nature  grows  lavish  of  her  gifts ;  but 
the  first  white  and  red  petals  that  unfold  them- 
selves have  a  more  delicate  perfume — seem  made 
of  purer  elements  and  more  wonderful  in  perfec- 
tion— than  their  later  sisters.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  If  it  only  appears  so  it  is  all  the  same  as  if 
real,"  replied  Mr.  Delancy,  smiling, 

"  How  ?" 

"  It  is  real  to  you.  What  more  could  you  have? 
Not  more  enjoyment  of  summer's  gifts  of  beauty 
and  sweetness," 

"  No  ;  perhaps  not." 

Rose  let  her  eyes  fall  to  the  ground,  and  re- 
mained silent. 

"  Things  are  real  to  us  as  we  see  them ;  not  al- 
ways as  they  are,"  said  Mr.  Delancy. 

"And  this  is  true  of  life?" 

"  Yes,  child.  It  is  in  life  that  we  create  for 
ourselves  real  things  out  of  what  to  some  are  airy 
nothings.  Real  things,  against  which  we  often 
bruise  or  maim  ourselves,  while  to  others  they  are 
as  intangible  as  shadows." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Rose. 

"  It  is  true." 

"  Yes,  I  see  it.  Imaginary  evils  we  thus  make 
real  things,  and  hurt  ourselves  by  contact,  as,  may- 
be, you  have  done  this  morning,  Mr.  Delancy." 


202  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Yes — yes.  And  false  idea"  of  things  which 
are  unrealities  in  the  abstract — for  only  what  is 
true  has  actual  substance — become  real  to  the  per- 
verted understanding.  Ah,  child,  there  are  strange 
contradictions  and  deep  problems  in  life  for  each 
of  us  to  solve." 

"  But,  God  helping  us,  we  may  always  reach  the 
true  solution/'  said  Hose  Carman,  lifting  a  bright, 
confident  face  to  that  of  her  companion. 

"That  was  spoken  well,  my  child,"  returned 
Mr.  Delancy,  with  a  new  life  in  his  voice; 
"  and  without  Him  we  can  never  be  certain  of  our 
way." 

"  Never — never."  There  was  a  tender,  trusting 
solemnity  in  the  voice  of  Rose. 

"  Young,  but  wise,"  said  Mr.  Delancy. 

"  No  !  Young,  but  not  wise.  I  cannot  see  the 
way  plain  before  me  for  a  single  week,  Mr.  De- 
lancy. For  a  week  ?  No,  not  for  a  day  !" 

"  Who  does  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"Some." 

"None.  There  are  many  who  walk  onward 
with  erect  heads  and  confident  bearing.  They  are 
sure  of  their  way,  and  smile  if  one  whisper  a  cau- 
tion as*to  the  ground  upon  which  they  step  so 
fearlessly.  But  they  soon  get  astray  or  into  pit- 
falls. God  keeping  and  guiding  us,  Rose,  we 
may  find  our  way  safely  through  this  world.  But 
we  will  soon  lose  ourselves  if  we  trust  in  our  own 
wisdom." 


70UXG,   BUT  WISE.  203 

Thus  they  talked — that  old  man  and  gentle- 
hearted  girl — as  they  moved  about  the  garden- 
walks,  every  new  flower,  or  leaf,  or  opening  bud 
they  paused  to  admire  or  examine,  suggesting 
themes  for  wiser  words  than  usually  pass  between 
one  so  old  and  one  so  young.  At  Mr.  Delancy's 
earnest  request,  Rose  stayed  to  dinner,  the  waiting- 
man  being  sent  to  her  father's,  not  far  distant,  to 
take  word  that  she  would  not  be  at  home  until  in 
the  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  SHIPWRECKED    LIFE. 

FTE]N,  during  that  morning,  did  the  name  of 
Irene  come  to  their  lips,  for  the  thought  of 
her  was  all  the  while  present  to  both. 

"You  must  win  her  heart  back  again, 
Rose,"  said  Mr.  Delancy.  "  I  will  lure  her  to 
Ivy  Cliff  often  this  summer,  and  keep  her  here  as 
long  as  possible  each  time.  You  will  then  be  much 
together."  They  had  risen  from  the  dinner-table 
and  were  entering  the  library. 

"  Things  rarely  come  cut  as  we  plan  them,"  an- 
swered Rose.  "  But  I  love  Irene  truly,  and  will 
make  my  own  place  in  her  heart  again,  if  she  will 
give  me  the  key  of  entrance." 

"•  You  must  find  the  key,  Rose." 

Miss  Carman  smiled. 

'•  I  said  if  she  would  give  it  to  me." 

"  She  does  not  carry  the  key  that  opens  the  door 
for  you,"  replied  Mr.  Delancy.  "  If  you  do  not 
know  where  it  lies,  search  for  it  in  the  secret  places 
of  your  own  mind,  and  it  will  be  found,  God  help- 
ing you.  Rose." 

Mr.  Delancy  looked  at  her  significantly. 

"  God  helping  me,"  she  answered,  with  a  rever 
em  sinking  of  her  voice,  "  I  will  find  the  key/' 

204 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  LIFE.  205 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  in  a  tone  of 
surprise,  turning  his  face  to  the  window. 

Rose  followed  his  eyes,  but  no  one  was  visible. 

"  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  a  lady  cross  the .  por- 
tico this  moment." 

Both  stood  still,  listening  and  expectant. 

"  It  might  have  been  fancy,"  said  Mr.  Delancy, 
drawing  a  deep  breath. 

Rose  stepped  to  one  of  the  library  windows, 
and  throwing  it  up,  looked  out  upon  the  portico. 

"  There  is  no  one,"  she  remarked,  coming  back 
into  the  room. 

"  Could  I  have  been  so  mistaken  ?" 

Mr.  Delancy  looked  bewildered. 

Seeing  that  the  impression  was  so  strong  on  his 
mind,  Miss  Carman  went  out  into  the  hall,  and 
glanced  from  there  into  the  parlor  and  dining- 
room. 

"  No  one  came  in,  Mr.  Delancy,"  she  said,  on 
returning  to  the  library. 

"A  mere  impression,"  remarked  the  old  man, 
soberly.  "  Well,  these  impressions  are  often  very 
singular.  My  face  was  partly  turned  to  the  win- 
dow, so  that  I  saw  out,  but  not  so  distinctly  as  if 
both  eyes  had  been  in  the  range  of  vision.  The 
form  of  a  woman  came  to  my  sight  as  distinctly  as 
if  the  presence  had  been  real — the  form  of  a  wo- 
man going  swiftly  past  the  window." 

"  Did  you  recognize  the  form  ?" 

It  was  some  time  before  Mr,  Delancy  replied. 


206  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

"Yes."     He  looked  anxious. 

"  You  thought  of  Irene  ?" 

"  I  did." 

"  We  have  talked  and  thought  of  Irene  so  much 
lo-day,"  said  Rose,  "  that  your  thought  of  her  has 
made  you  present  to  her  mind  with  more  than 
usual  distinctness.  Her  thought  of  you  has  been 
more  intent  in  consequence,  and  this  has  drawn  her 
nearer.  You  saw  her  by  an  inward,  not  by  an  out- 
ward, vision.  She  is  now  present  with  you  in 
spirit,  though  her  body  be  many  miles  distant. 
These  things  often  happen.  They  startle  us  by 
their  strangeness,  but  are  as  much  dependent  on 
laws  of  the  mind  as  bodily  nearness  is  dependent 
on  the  laws  of  matter." 

"  You  think  so  ?"  Mr.  Delancy  looked  at  his 
young  companion  curiously. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

The  old  man  shook  his  bead.  "  Ingenious,  but 
not  satisfactory." 

"  You  will  admit,"  said  Rose,  "  that  as  to  our 
minds  we  may  be  present  in  any  part  of  the  world, 
and  in  an  instant  of  time,  though  our  bodies 
move  not." 

"  Our  thought  may  be,"  replied  Mr.  Delaucy. 

"•  Or,  in  better  words,  the  eyes  of  our  mind» 
may  be ;  for  it  is  the  eyes  that  see  objects,"  said 
Rose. 

"  Well ;  say  the  eyes  of  our  minds,  then." 

"  We  cannot  see  objects  in  London,  for  instance, 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  LIFE.  207 

with  our  bodily  eyes  unless  our  bodies  be  in  Lon 
don  ?"  resumed  Rose. 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Nor  with  our  mental  eyes,  unless  our  spirits 
1)H  there.." 

Mr.  Delancy  looked  down  thoughtfully. 

"  It  must  be  true,  then,  that  our  thought  of  any 
one  brings  us  present  to  that  individual,  and  that 
such  presence  is  often  recognized." 

t<:  That  is  pushing  the  argument  too  far." 

"  I  think  not.  Has  it  not  often  happened  that 
suddenly  the  thought  of  an  absent  one  came  into 
your  mind,  and  that  you  saw  him  or  her  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  almost  as  distinctly  as  if  in  bodily 
presence  before  you  ?" 

"  Yes.     That  has  many  times  been  the  case." 

"  And  you  had  not  been  thinking  of  that  per- 
son, nor  had  there  been  any  incident  as  a  re- 
minder ?" 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  My  explanation  is,  that  this  person  from  some 
cause  had  been  led  to  think  of  you  intently,  and 
so  came  to  you  in  spirit.  There  was  actual  pres- 
ence, arid  you  saw  each  other  with  the  eyes  of 
your  minds." 

"  But,  my  wise  reasoner,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  "  it 
was  the  bodily  form — with  face,  eyes,  hands,  feet 
and  material  garments — that  was  seen,  not  the 
spirit.  If  our  spirits  have  eyes  that  see,  why  they 
can  only  see  spiritual  things." 


208  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Has  not  a  spirit  a  face,  and  hands,  and  feet  ?" 
asked  Rose,  with  a  confidence  that  caused  the  old 
man  to  look  at  her  almost  wonderingly. 

"  Not  a  face,  and  hands,  and  feet  like  these  of 
mine,"  he  answered. 

"  Yes,  like  them,"  she  replied,  "  but  of  spiritual 
substance." 

"Spiritual  substance!  That  is  a  novel  terra. 
This  is  substance."  And  Mr.  Delancy  grasped  the 
arm  of  a  chair. 

"  No,  that  is  material  and  unsubstantial,"  she 
calmly  replied  ;  "it  is  subject  to  change  and  decay. 
A  hundred  years  from  now  and  there  may  be  no 
visible  sign  that  it  had  ever  been.  But  the  soul 
is  imperishable  and  immortal ;  the  only  thing 
about  man  that  is  really  substantial.  And  now," 
she  added,  "  for  the  faces  of  our  spirits.  What 
gives  to  our  natural  faces  their  form,  beauty  and 
expression  ?  Is  it  not  the  soul-face  within  ?  Re- 
move that  by  death,  and  all  life,  thought  and 
feeling  are  gone  from  the  stolid  effigy.  And  so 
you  see,  Mr.  Delancy,  that  our  minds  must  be 
formed  of  spiritual  substance,  and  that  our  bodies 
are  but  the  outward  material  clothing  which  the 
EOU!  puts  on  for  action  and  use  in  this  world  of 
nature." 

"  Why,  you  are  a  young  philosopher !"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Delancy,  looking  in  wonder  at  his  fair  com- 
panion. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with   simplicity,  "  I  talk 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  LIFE.  209 

with  my  father  ahout  these  things,  and  it  all  seems 
very  plain  to  me.  I  cannot  see  how  any  one  can 
question  what  appears  to  me  so  plain.  That  the 
mind  is  substantial  we  see  from  this  fact  alone — it 
retains  impressions  longer  than  the  body." 

"You  think  so?"    • 

"  Take  an  instance,"  said  Rose.  "  A  boy  is  pun- 
ished unjustly  by  a  passionate  teacher,  who  uses 
taunting  words  as  well  as  smarting  blows.  Now 
the  pain  of  these  blows  is  gone  in  less  than  an 
hour,  but  the  word-strokes  received  on  his  spirit 
hurt  him,  maybe,  to  the  end  of  his  mortal  life.  Is 
it  not  so  ?  And  if  so,  why  ?  There  must  be  sub- 
stance to  hold  impressions  so  long." 

"  You  silence,  if  you  do  not  fully  convince,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Delancy.  "  I  must  dream  over  what  you 
have  said.  And  so  your  explanation  is,  that  my 
thought  of  Irene  has  turned  her  thought  to  me, 
and  thus  we  became  really  present  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  I  saw  her  just  now  by  an  inner,  and 
not  by  an  outer,  sight  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  But  why  was  the  appearance  an  outward  mani- 
festation, so  to  speak  ?" 

"  Sight  is  in  the  mind,  even  natural  sight.  The 
eye  does  not  go  out  to  a  tree,  but  the  image  of  the 
tree  comes  to  the  eye,  and  thence  is  presented,  in  a 
wonderful  and  mysterious  way,  to  the  mind,  which 
takes  note  of  its  form.  The  appearance  is,  that 


210  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

the  soul  looks  out  at  the  tree  j  but  the  fact  is,  the 
image  of  the  tree  comes  to  the  brain,  and  is  there 
seen.  Now  the  brain  may  be  impressed,  and  re- 
spond by  natural  vision,  from  an  internal  as  well 
as  from  an  external  communication.  We  see  this 
in  cases  of  visual  aberrations,*the  instances  of  which 
given  in  books,  and  clearly  authenticated,  are  innu- 
merable. Things  are  distinctly  seen  in  a  room 
•which  have  no  existence  in  nature;  and  the  illu- 
sion is  so  perfect  that  it  seems  impossible  for  eyes 
to  be  mistaken." 

"Well,  well,  child,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  "this  is 
curious,  and  a  little  bewildering.  Perhaps  it  is  all 
just  as  you  say  about  Irene;  but  I  feel  very  heavy 
here;"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  breast  and 
sighed  deeply. 

At  this  moment  the  library  door  was  pushed 
gently  open,  and  the  form  of  a  woman  stood  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Delancy  and  Rose.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  dark  silk,  but  had  on  neither  bonnet 
nor  shawl.  Both  started ;  Mr.  Delancy  raised  his 
hands  and  bent  forward,  gazing  at  her  eagerly,  his 
lips  apart.  The  face  of  the  woman  was  pale  and 
haggard,  yet  familiar  as  the  face  of  an  old  friend ; 
but  in  it  was  something  so  strange  and  unnatural 
thai  for  a  moment  or  two  it  was  not  recognized. 

"  Father !"  It  was  Irene.  She  advanced  quietly 
and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  My  daughter !"  He  caught  the  extended  hand 
and  kissed  her,  but  she  showed  no  emotion. 


THE  SHIPWRECKED   LIFE.  211 

"  Rose,  dear,  lam  glad  to  see  you."  There  was 
truth  in  the  dead  level  tone  with  which  "  I  am  glad 
to  see  you"  was  spoken,  and  Rose,  who  perceived 
tl  is,  took  her  hand  and  kissed  her.  Both  hands 
and  lips  were  cold. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Irene  ?  Have  you  been 
sick  ?"  asked  Mr.  Delancy,  in  a  choking  voice. 

"  No,  father,  I'm  very  well."  You  would  never 
have  recognized  that  voice  as  the  voice  of  Irene. 

"  No,  child,  you  are  not  well.  What  ails  you  ? 
Why  are  you  here  in  so  strange  a  way  and  looking 
so  strangely  ?" 

"Do  I  look  strangely?"  There  was  a  feeble 
effort  to  awaken  a  smile,  which  only  gave  her  face 
a  ghastly  expression. 

"  Is  Hartley  with  you  ?" 

"  No."  Her  voice  was  fuller  and  more  emphatic 
as  she  uttered  this  word.  She  tried  to  look  steadily 
at  her  father,  but  her  eyes  moved  aside  from  the 
range  of  his  vision. 

For  a  little  while  there  was  a  troubled  silence 
with  all.  Rose  had  placed  an  arm  around  the 
waist  of  Irene  and  drawn  her  to  the  sofa,  on  which 
they  were  now  sitting;  Mr.  Delancy  stood  before 
them.  Gradually  the  cold,  almost  blank,  express- 
ion of  Irene's  face  changed  and  the  old  look  came 
back. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  Mr.  Delancy. 

"  Father" — Irene  interrupted  him — u  I  know 
what  you  are  going  to  say.  My  sudden,  unan- 


212  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

nounced  appearance,  at  this  time,  needs  explana- 
tion. I  am  glad  dear  Rose  is  here — my  old,  true 
friend" — and  she  leaned  against  Miss  Carman — 
"  I  can  trust  her." 

The  arm  of  Rose  tightened  around  the  waist  of 
Irene. 

"  Father" — the  \roice  of  Irene  fell  to  a  deep, 
solemn  tone ;  there  was  no  emphasis  on  one  word 
more  than  on  another ;  all  was  a  dead  level ;  yet 
the  meaning  was  as  full  and  the  involved  purpose 
as  fixed  as  if  her  voice  had  run  through  the  whole 
range  of  passionate  intonation — "  Father,  I  have 
come  ba<5k  to  Ivy  Cliff  and  to  you,  after  having 
suffered  shipwreck  on  the  voyage  of  life.  I  went 
out  rich,  as  I  supposed,  in  heart-treasures ;  I  come 
back  poor.  My  gold  was  dross,  and  the  sea  has 
swallowed  up  even  that  miserable  substitute  for 
wealth.  Hartley  and  I  never  truly  loved  each 
other,  and  the  experiment  of  living  together  as 
husband  and  wife  has  proved  a  failure.  We  have 
not  been  happy;  no,  not  from  the  beginning.  We 
have  not  even  been  tolerant  or  forbearing  toward 
each  other.  A  steady  alienation  has  been  in  pro- 
gress day  by  day,  week  by  week,  and  month  by 
month,  until  no  remedy  is  left  but  separation. 
That  has  been,  at  length,  applied,  and  here  I  am ! 
It  is  the  third  time  that  I  have  left  him,  and  to 
both  of  us  the  act  is  final.  He  will  not  seek  me, 
and  I  shall  not  return." 

There  had  come  a  slight   flush  to  *he  counte- 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  LIFE.  213 

nance  of  Irene  before  she  commenced  speal  'ng, 
but  this  retired  again,  and  she  looked  deathly  kwile. 
No  one  answered  her — only  the  arm  of  Hose  tight- 
ened like  a  cord  around  the  waist  of  her  unhappy 
friend. 

"  Father,"  and  now  her  voice  fluttered  a  little, 
"  for  your  sake  I  am  most  afflicted.  I  am  strong 
enough  to  bear  my  fate — but  you  !" 

There  was  a  little  sob — a  strong  suppression  of 
feeling — and  silence. 

"Oh,  Irene!  my  child!  my  child!"  The  old 
man  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  sobbed,  and 
shook  like  a  fluttering  leaf.  t  "  I  cannot  bear  this ! 
It  is  too  much  for  me!"  and  he  staggered  back- 
ward. Irene  sprung  forward  and  caught  him  in 
her  arms.  He  would  have  fallen,  but  for  this,  to 
the  floor.  She  stood  clasping  and  kissing  him 
wildly,  until  Rose  came  forward  and  led  them 
both  to  the  sofa. 

Mr.  Delancy  did  not  rally  from  this  shock.  He 
leaned  heavily  against  his  daughter,  and  she  felt  a 
low  tremor  in  his  frame. 

"  Father !"  She  spoke  tenderly,  with  her  lips  to 
his  ear.  "  Dear  father !" 

But  he  did  not  reply. 

"  It  is  my  life-discipline,  father,"  she  said  ;  "  I 
will  be  happier  and  better,  no  doubt,  in  the  end  for 
this  severe  trial.  Dear  father,  do  not  let  what  is 
inevitable  so  break  down  your  heart.  You  are  my 
strong,  brave,  good  father,  and  I  shall  need  now 


214  AFTER   THE  UTinX. 

more  than  ever,  your  sustaining  arm.  There  was 
no  help  for  this.  It  had  to  come,  sooner  or  later. 
It  is  over  now.  The  first  bitterness  is  past.  Let 
us  be  thankful  for  that,  and  gather  up  our  strength 
for  the  future.  Dear  father !  Speak  to  me !" 

Mr.  Delancy  tried  to  rally  himself,  but  he  was 
too  much  broken  down  by  the  shock.  He  said  a 
few  words,  in  which  there  was  scarcely  any  connec- 
tion of  ideas,  and  then,  getting  up  from  the  sofa, 
walked  about  the  room,  turning  one  of  his  hands 
within  the  other  in  a  distressed  way. 

"  Oh  dear,  dear,  dear !"  he  murmured  to  himself, 
in  a  feeble  manner.  "I  have  dreaded  this,  and 
prayed  that  it  might  not  be.  Such  wretchedness 
and  disgrace !  Such  wretchedness  and  disgrace ! 
Had  they  no  patience  with  each  other — no  forbear- 
ance— no  love,  that  it  must  come  to  this?  Dear! 
dear !  dear !  Poor  child !" 

Irene,  with  her  white,  wretched  face,  sat  looking 
at  him  for  some  time,  as  he  moved  about,  a  picture 
of  helpless  misery ;  then,  going  to  him  again,  she 
drew  an  arm  around  his  neck  and  tried  to  comfort 
him.  But  there  was  no  comfort  in  her  words. 
What  could  she  say  to  reach  with  a  healing  power 
Hie  wound  from  which  his  very  life-blood  was 
pouring. 

"  Don't  talk !  don't  talk  !"  he  said,  pushing  Irene 
away,  with  slight  impatience  of  manner.  "  I  ana 
heart-broken.  Words  are  nothing !" 

u  Mr.  Delancy,"  said  Rose,  now  coming  to  hia 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  LIFE.  215 

side,  and  laying  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  "you  must 
not  speak  so  to  Irene.  This  is  not  like  you." 

There  was  a  calmness  of  utterance  and  a  firmness 
of  manner  which  had  their  right  effect. 

"  How  have  I  spoken,  Rose,  dear  ?  What  have 
I  said  ?"  Mr.  Delancy  stopped  and  looked  at  Miss 
Carman  in  a  rebuked,  confused  way,  laying  his 
hand  upon  his  forehead  at  the  same  time. 

"  Not  from  yourself,"  answered  Rose. 

"Not  from  myself!"  He  repeated  her  words, 
as  if  his  thoughts  were  still  in  a  maze.  "  Ah, 
child,  this  is  dreadful !"  he  added.  "  I  am  not 
myself!  Poor  Irene!  Poor  daughter!  Poor 
father!" 

And  the  old  man  lost  himself  again. 

A  look  of  fear  now  shadowed  darkly  the  face  of 
Irene,  and  she  glanced  anxiously  from  her  father's 
countenance  to  that  of  Rose.  She  did  not  read  in 
the  face  of  her  young  friend  much  that  gave  assu- 
rance or  comfort. 

"  Mr.  Delancy,"  said  Rose,  with  great  earnest- 
ness of  manner,  "  Irene  is  in  sore  trouble.  She 
has  come  to  a  great  crisis  in  her  life.  You  are 
older  and  wiser  than  she  is,  and  must  counsel  and 
sustain  her.  Be  calm,  dear  sir — calm,  clear-seeing, 
wise  and  considerate,  as  you  have  always  been." 

"  Calm — clear-seeing — wise."  Mr.  Delancy  re- 
peated the  words,  as  if  endeavoring  to  grasp  the 
.rein  of  thought  and  get  possession  of  himself 
again. 


216  AFTER  THE  STORlf. 

"  Wise  to  counsel  and  strong  to  sustain,"  said 
Rose.  "  You  must  not  fail  us  now." 

"  Thank  you,  my  sweet  young  monitor,"  replied 
Mr.  Delancy,  partially  recovering  himself;  "  it  was 
the  weakness  of  a  moment.  Irene,"  and  he  looked 
toward  his  daughter,  "  leave  me  with  my  own 
thoughts  for  a  little  while.  Take  her,  Rose,  to  her 
own  room,  and  God  give  you  power  to  speak  words 
of  consolation ;  I  have  none." 

Rose  drew  her  arm  within  that  of  Irene,  and 
said,  "  Come."  But  Irene  lingered,  looking  ten- 
derly and  anxiously  at  her  father. 

"  Go,  my  love."     Mr.  Delancy  waved  his  hand. 

"  Father !  dear  father !"  She  moved  a  step  to- 
ward him,  while  Rose  held  her  back. 

"  I  cannot  help  myself,  father.  The  die  is  cast. 
Oh  bear  up  with  me !  I  will  be  to  you  a  better 
daughter  than  I  have  ever  been.  My  life  shall  be 
devoted  to  your  happiness.  In  that  I  will  find  a 
compensation.  All  is  not  lost — all  is  not  ruined. 
My  heart  is  as  pure  as  when  I  left  you  three  years 
ago.  I  come  back  bleeding  from  my  life-battle  it 
is  true,  but  not  in  mortal  peril — wounded,  but  not 
unto  death — cast  down,  but  not  destroyed." 

All  the  muscles  of  Mr.  Delancy's  face  quivered 
with  suppressed  feeling  as  he  stood  looking  at  his 
daughter,  who,  as  she  uttered  the  words,  "cast 
down,  but  not  destroyed,"  flung  herself  in  wild 
abandonment  on  his  breast. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THE  PALSIED  HEART. 

HE  shock  to  Mr.  Delancy  was  a  fearful  one, 
coming  asv  it  did  on  a  troubled,  foreboding 
state  of  mind;  and  reason  lost  for  a  little 
while  her  firm  grasp  on  the  rein  of  govern- 
ment. If  the  old  man  could  have  seen  a  ray  of 
hope  in  the  case  it  would  have  been  different.  But 
from  the  manner  and  language  of  his  daughter  it 
was  plain  that  the  dreaded  evil  had  found  them ; 
and  the  certainty  of  this  falling  suddenly,  struck 
him  as  with  a  heavy  blow. 

For  several  days  he  was  like  one  who  had  been 
stunned.  All  that  afternoon  on  which  his  daughter 
returned  to  Ivy  Cliff  he  moved  about  in  a  bewil- 
dered way,  and  by  his  questions  and  remarks 
showed  an  incoherence  of  thought  that  filled  the 
heart  of  Irene  with  alarm. 

On  the  next  morning,  when  she  met  him  at  the 
breakfast-table,  he  smiled  on  her  in  his  old  affec- 
tionate way.     As  she  kissed  him,  she  said, 
"  I  hope  you  slept  well  last  night,  father  ?" 
A  slight  change  was  visible  in  his  face. 
"  I  slept  soundly  enough,"  he  replied,  "  but  my 
dreams  were  not  agreeable." 

217 


218  AFTER  THE  STOEM. 

Then  he  looked  at  her  with  a  slight  closing  of 
the  brows  and  a  questioning  look  in  his  eyes. 

They  sat  down,  Irene  taking  her  old  place  at  the 
table.  As  she  poured  out  her  father's  coffee,  he 
said,  smiling, 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  have  you  sitting  there, 
daughter." 

"Is  it?" 

Irene  was  troubled  by  this  old  manner  of  her 
father.  Could  he  have  forgotten  why  she  was 
there  ? 

"  Yes,  it  is  pleasant,"  he  replied,  and  then  his 
eye  dropped  in  a  thoughtful  way. 

"  I  think,  sometimes,  that  your  attractive  New 
York  friends  have  made  you  neglectful  of  your 
lonely  old  father.  You  don't  come  to  see  him  as 
often  as  you  did  a  year  ago.'' 

Mr.  Delancy  said  this  with  simple  earnestness. 

"  They  shall  not  keep  me  from  you  any  more, 
dear  father/'  replied  Irene,  meeting  his  humor,  yet 
heart-appalled  at  the  same  time  with  this  evidence 
that  his  mind  was  wandering  from  the  truth. 

"  I  don't  think  them  safe  friends,"  added  Mr. 
Delancy,  with  seriousness. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  replied  Irene. 

"  Ah  !  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  Now,  you 
have  one  true,  safe  friend.  I  wish  you  loved  her 
better  than  you  do." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Rose  Carman,"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  wiih  a  slight 


THE  PALSIED  HEART.  210 

hesitation  of  manner,  as  if  he  feared  repulsion  on 
the  part  of  his  daughter. 

"  I  love  Rose,  dearly ;  she  is  the  best  of  girls ; 
and  I  know  her  to  be  a  true  friend,"  replied  Irene. 

"Spoken  like  my  own 'daughter !"  said  the  old 
man  with  a  brightening  countenance.  "  You  must 
not  neglect  her  any  more.  Why,  she  told  me  you 
hadn't  written  to  her  in  six  months.  Now,  that 
isn't  right.  -Never  go  past  old,  true  friends  for 
the  sake  of  new,  and  maybe  false  ones.  No — no. 
Rose  is  hurt ;  you  must  write  to  her  often — every 
week." 

Irene  could  not  answer.  Her  heart  was  beating 
wildly.  What  could  this  mean  ?  Had  reason  fled? 
But  she  struggled  hard  to  preserve  a  calm  exterior. 

"  Will  Hartley  be  up  to-day  ?" 

Irene  tried  to  say  "  No,"  but  could  not  find 
utterance. 

Mr.  Delancy  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  now  in 
a  slightly  troubled  way.  Then  he  let  his  eyes  fall, 
and  sat  holding  his  cup  like  one  who  was  turning 
perplexed  thoughts  in  his  mind. 

"  You  are  not  well  this  morning,  father,"  said 
Irene,  speaking  only  because  silence  was  too  op- 
pressive for  endurance. 

"I  don't  know;  perhaps  I'm  not  very  well ;" 
."wid  Mr.  Delancy  looked  across  the  table  at  his 
daughter  very  earnestly.  "I  had  bad  dreams  all 
last  night,  and  they  seem  to  have  got  mixed  up  in 
my  thoughts  with  real  things.  How  is  it  ?  When 


220  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

did  you  come  up  from  New  York  ?  Dou't  smile 
at  me.  But  really  I  can't  think." 

"  I  came  yesterday/'  said  Irene,  as  calmly  as  she 
could  speak. 

"  Yesterday  !"  He  looked  at  her  with  a  quickly 
changing  face. 

"  Yes,  father,  I  came  up  yesterday." 

"  And  Rose  was  here  ?" 

"Yes." 

Mr.  Delancy's  eyes  fell  again,  and  he  sat  very 
still. 

"  Hartley  will  not  be  here  to-day  ?" 

Mr.  Delancy  did  not  look  up  as  he  asked  this 
question. 

"No,  father." 

"  Nor  to-morrow  ?" 

"I  think  not." 

A  sigh  quivered  on  the  old  man's  lips. 

"Nor  the  day  after  that?" 

"  He  did  not  say  when  he  was  coming,"  replied 
Irene,  evasively. 

"  Did  not  say  when  ?  •  Did  not  say  when  ?"  Mr. 
Delancy  repeated  the  sentence  two  or  three  times, 
evidently  trying  all  the  while  to  recall  something 
which  had  faded  from  his  memory. 

"Don't  worry  yourself  about  Hartley,"  said 
Irene,  forcing  herself  to  pronounce  a  name  that 
Beemed  like  fire  on  her  lips.  "  Isn't  it  enough  that 
I  am  here  ?" 

"  No,  it  is  not  enough."    And  her  father  put  his 


THF  PALSIED  HEART.  221 

hand  to  his  forehead  and  looked  upward  in  an 
earnest,  searching  manner. 

What  could  Irene  say?  What  could  she  do? 
The  mind  of  her  father  was  groping  about  in  the 
dark,  and  she  was  every  moment  in  dread  lest  he 
should  discover  the  truth  and  get  farther  astray 
from  the  shock. 

No  food  was  taken  by  either  Mr.  Delancy  or  his 
daughter.  The  former  grew  more  entangled  in  his 
thoughts,  and  finally  arose  from  the  table,  saying, 
in  a  half-apologetic  way, 

"  I  don't  know  what  ails  me  this  morning." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Irene,  rising  at 
the  same  time. 

"  Nowhere  in  particular.  The  air  is  close  here 
— I'll  sit  a  while  in  the  portico,"  he  answered,  and 
throwing  open  one  of  the  windows  he  stepped  out- 
side. Irene  followed  him. 

"  How  beautiful !"  said  Mr.  Delancy,  as  he  sat 
down  and  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  attractive  land- 
scape. Irene  did  not  trust  her  voice  in  reply. 

"  Now  go  in  and  finish  your  breakfast,  child.  1 
feel  better;  I  don't  know  what  came  over  me." 
He  added  the  last  sentence  in  an  undertone. 

Irene  returned  into  the  house,  but  not  to  resume 
her  place  at  the  table.  Her  mind  was  in  an  agony 
of  dread.  She  had  reached  the  dining-room,  and 
was  about  to  ring  for  a  servant,  when  she  heard 
her  name  called  by  her  father.  Kunning  back 
quickly  to  the  portico,  she  found  him  standing 


222  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

in  the  attitude  of  one  who  had  been  suddenly 
startled ;  his  face  all  alive  with  question  and 
suspense. 

"  Oh,  yes !  yes  !  I  thought  you  were  here  this 
moment!  And  so  it's  all  true?"  he  said,  in  a 
quick,  troubled  way. 

"  True  ?  What  is  true,  father  ?"  asked  Irene,  as 
she  paused  before  him. 

"  True,  what  you  told  me  yesterday." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"You  have  left  your  husband?"  He  looked 
soberly  into  her  face. 

"  I  have,  father."  She  thought  it  best  to  use  no 
evasion. 

He  groaned,  sat  down  in  the  chair  from  which 
he  had  arisen,  and  let  his  head  fall  upon  his  bosom. 

"  Father !"  Irene  kneeled  before  him  and 
clasped  his  hands.  "  Father  !  dear  father !" 

He  laid  a  hand  on  her  head,  and  smoothed  her 
hair  in  a  caressing  manner. 

"  Poor  child !  poor  daughter !"  he  said,  in  a 
fond,  pitying  voice,  "don't  take  it  so  to  heart. 
Your  old  father  loves  you  still." 

She  could  not  stay  the  wild  rush  of  feeling  that 
was  overmastering  her.  Passionate  sobs  heaved 
ner  breast,  and  tears  came  raining  from  her  eyes. 

"  Now,  don't,  Irene !  Don't  take  on  so,  daugh- 
ter !  I  love  you  still,  and  we  will  be  happy  here, 
as  in  other  days." 

"  Yes,   father,"  said    Irene,   holding  down    her 


THE  PALSIED  HEART.  223 

head  and  calming  her  voice,  "  we  will  be  hajjpy 
here,  as  in  the  dear  old  time.  Oh  we  will  be  very 
happy  together.  I  won't  leave  you  any  more." 

"  I  wish  you  had  never  left  me,"  he  answered, 
mournfully;  "I  was  always  afraid  of  this — always 
afraid.  But  don't  let  it  break  your  heart;  I'm  all 
the  same ;  nothing  will  ever  turn  me  against  you. 
I  hope  he  hasn't  been  very  unkind  to  you  ?"  His 
voice  grew  a  little  severe. 

"  We  wont  say  anything  against  him,"  replied 
Irene,  trying  to  understand  exactly  her  father's 
state  of  mind  and  accommodate  herself  thereto. 
"  Forgive  and  forget  is  the  wisest  rule  always." 

"Yes,  dear,  that's  it.  Forgive  and  forget — for- 
give and  forget.  There's  nothing  like  it  in  this 
world.  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  talk  so." 

The  mind  of  Mr.  Delancy  did  not  again  wander 
from  the  truth.  But  the  shock  received  when  it 
first  came  upon  him  with  stunning  force  had  taken 
away  his  keen  perception  of  the  calamity.  He  was 
sad,  troubled  and  restless,  and  talked  a  great  deal 
about  the  unhappy  position  of  his  daughter — some- 
times in  a  way  that  indicated  much  incoherence  of 
thought.  To  this  state  succeeded  one  of  almost 
total  silence,  and  he  would  sit  for  hours,  if  not 
aroused  from  reverie  and  inaction  by  his  daughter, 
in  apparent  dreamy  listlessness.  His  conversation, 
when  he  did  talk  on  any  subject,  showed,  however, 
that  his  mind  had  regained  its  old  clearness. 

On  the  third  day  after  Irene's  arrival  at  Ivy 


224  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

Cliff,  her  trunks  came  up  from  New  York.  She 
had  packed  them  on  the  night  before  leaving  her 
husband's  house,  and  marked  them  with  her  name 
and  that  of  her  father's  residence.  No  letter  or 
message  accompanied  them.  She  did  not  expect 
nor  desire  any  communication,  and  was  not  there- 
fore disappointed,  but  rather  relieved  from  what 
would  have  only  proved  a  cause  of  disturbance. 
All  angry  feelings  toward  her  husband  had  sub- 
sided ;  but  no  tender  impulses  moved  in  her  heart, 
nor  did  the  feeblest  thought  of  reconciliation 
breathe  over  the  surface  of  her  mind.  She  had 
been  in  bonds ;  now  the  fetters  were  cast  off,  and 
she  loved  freedom  too  well  to  bend  her  neck  again 
to  the  yoke. 

No  tender  impulses  moved,  we  have  said,  in  her 
heart,  for  it  lay  like  a  palsied  thing,  dead  in  her 
bosom — dead,  we  mean,  so  far  as  the  wife  was  con- 
cerned. It  was  not  so  palsied  on  that  fatal  even- 
ing when  the  last  strife  with  her  husband  closed. 
But  in  the  agony  that  followed  there  came,  in 
mercy,  a  cold  paralysis ;  and  now  toward  Hartley 
Emerson  her  feelings  were  as  calm  as  the  surface 
of  a  frozen  lake. 

And  how  was  it  with  the  deserted  husband  ? 
Stern  and  unyielding  also.  The  past  year  had 
been  marked  by  so  little  of  mutual  tenderness, 
there  had  been  so  frw  passages  of  love  between 
them — green  spots  in  the  desert  of  their  lives — 
that  memory  brought  hardly  a  relic  from  the  past 


THE  PALSIED  HEART.  225 

over  which  the  heart  could  brood.  For  the  sake 
of  worldly  appearances,  Emerson  most  regretted 
the  unhappy  event.  Next,  his  trouble  was  fen 
Irene  and  her  father,  but  most  for  Irene. 

"Willful,  wayward  one!"  he  said  many,  many 
times.  "  You,  of  all,  will  suffer  most.  No  wo- 
man can  take  a  step  like  this  without  drinking  of 
pain  to  the  bitterest  dregs.  If  you  can  hide  the 
anguish,  well.  But  I  fear  the  trial  will  be  too 
hard  for  you — the  burden  too  heavy.  Poor,  mis- 
taken one !" 

For  a  month  the  household  arrangements  of  Mr. 
Emerson  continued  as  when  Irene  left  him.  He 
did  not  intermit  for  a  day  or  an  hour  his  business 
duties,  and  came  home  regularly  at  his  usual  times 
— always,  it  must  be  said,  with  a  feeble  expecta- 
tion of  meeting  his  wife  in  her  old  places ;  we  do 
not  say  desire,  but  simply  expectation.  If  she  had 
returned,  well.  He  would  not  have  repulsed,  nor 
would  he  have  received  her  with  strong  indications 
of  pleasure.  But  a  month  went  by,  and  she  did 
not  return  nor  send  him  any  word.  Beyond  the 
brief  "  I  have  gone,"  there  had  come  from  her 
no  sign. 

Two  months  elapsed,  and  then  Mr.  Emerson 
dismissed  the  servants  and  shut  up  the  house,  but 
he  neither  'removed  nor  sold  the  furniture ;  that 
remained  as  it  was  for  nearly  a  year,  when  he  or- 
dered a  sale  by  auction  and  closed  the  estab- 
lishment, 
is 


226  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

Hartley  Emerson,  under  the  influence  of  business 
and  domestic  trouble,  matured  rapidly,  and  became 
grave,  silent  and  reflective  beyond  men  of  his 
years.  Companionable  he  was  by  nature,  and  dur- 
ing the  last  year  that  Irene  was  with  him,  failing 
to  receive  social  sympathy  at  home,  he  had  joined 
a  club  of  young  men,  whose  association  was  based 
on  a  declared  ambition  for  literary  excellence. 
From  this  club  he  withdrew  himself;  it  did  not 
meet  the  wants  of  his  higher  nature,  but  offered 
much  that  stimulated  the  grosser  appetites  and  pas- 
sions. Now  he  gave  himself  up  to  earnest  self- 
improvement,  and  found  in  the  higher  and  wider 
range  of  thought  which  came  as  the  result  a  par- 
tial compensation  for  what  he  had  lost.  But  he 
was  not  happy ;  far,  very  far  from  it.  And  there 
were  seasons  when  the  past  came  back  upon  him  in 
such  a  flood  that  all  the  barriers  of  indifference 
•which  he  had  raised  for  self-protection  were  swept 
away,  and  he  had  to  build  them  up  again  in  sad- 
ness of  spirit.  So  the  time  wore  on  with  him, 
anil  troubled  life-experiences  were  doing  their  work 
upon  his  character. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE    IRREVOCABLE  DECREE. 

|T  is  two  years  since  the  day  of  separation  be- 
tween Irene  and  her  husband.  Just  two  years. 
And  she  is  sitting  in  the  portico  at  Ivy  Cliff' 
with  her  father,  looking  down  upon  the  river 
that  lies  gleaming  in  sunshine  —  not  thinking  of 
the  river,  however,  nor  of  anything  in  nature. 

They  are  silent  and  still  —  very  still,  as  if  sleep 
had  locked  their  senses.  He  is  thin  and  wasted  as 
from  long  sickness,  and  she  looks  older  by  ten 
years.  There  is  no  fine  bloom  on  her  cheeks,  from 
which  the  fullness  of  youth  has  departed.  - 

It  is  a  warm  June  day,  the  softest,  balmiest, 
brightest  day  the  year  has  given.  The  air  comes 
laden  with  delicate  odors  and  thrilling  with  bird 
melodies,  and,  turn  the  eye  as  it  will,  there  is  a 
feast  of  beauty. 

Yet,  the  odors  are  not  perceived,  nor  the  music 
heard,  nor  the  beauty  seen  by  that  musing  old  man 
and  his  silent  daughter.  Their  thoughts  are  not 
in  the  present,  but  far  back  in  the  unhappy  past, 
the  memories  of  which,  awakened  by  the  scene  and 
season,  have  come  flowing  in  a  strong  tide  upon 


227 


228  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

Two  years !  They  have  left  the  prints  of  their 
heavy  feet  upon  the  life  of  Irene,  and  the  deep 
marks  will  never  be  wholly  obliterated.  She  were 
less  than  human  if  this  were  not  so.  Two  years ! 
Yet,  not  once  in  that  long,  heart-aching  time  had 
she  for  a  single  moment  looked  backward  in  weak- 
ness. Sternly  holding  to  her  act  as  right,  she 
Strengthened  herself  in  suffering,  and  bore  her  pain 
as  if  it  were  a  decree  of  fate.  There  was  no  anger 
in  her  heart,  nor  anything  of  hardness  toward  her 
husband.  But  there  was  no  love,  nor  tender  yearn- 
ing for  conjunction — at  least,  nothing  recognized  as 
such  in  her  own  conscious  ness. 

Not  since  the  day  Irene  left  the  house  of  her 
husband  had  she  heard  from  him  directly;  and 
only  two  or  three  times  indirectly.  She  had  never 
visited  the  city  since  her  flight  therefrom,  and  all 
her  pleasant  and  strongly  influencing  associations 
there  were,  in  consequence,  at  an  end.  Once  her 
very  dear  friend  Mrs.  Talbot  carne  up  to  sym- 
pathize with  and  strengthen  her  in  the  fiery  trial 
through  which  she  was  passing.  She  found  Irene's 
truer  friend,  Rosa  Carman,  with  her ;  and  Rose  did 
not  leave  them  alone  for  a  moment  at  a  time.  All 
sentiments  that  she  regarded  as  hurtful  to  Irene  in 
her  present  state  of  mind  she  met  with  her  calm, 
conclusive  mode  of  reasoning,  that  took  away  the 
specious  force  of  the  sophist's  dogmas.  But  her 
influence  was  chiefly  used  in  the  repression  of  un- 
profitable themes,  and  the  introduction  of  such  as 


THE  IRREVOCABLE  DECREE.  22D 

tended  to  tranquilize  the  feelings,  and  turn  the 
thoughts  of  her  friend  away  from  the  trouble  that 
was  lying  upon  her  soul  like  a  suffocating  night- 
mare. Mrs.  Talbot  was  not  pleased  with  her  visit, 
and  did  not  come  again.  But  she  wrote  several 
times.  The  tone  of  her  letters  was  not,  however, 
pleasant  to  Irene,  who  was  disturbed  by  it,  and 
more  bewildered  than  enlightened  by  the  senti- 
ments that  were  announced  with  oracular  vague- 
ness. These  letters  were  read  to  Miss  Carman,  on 
whom  Irene  was  beginning  to  lean  with  increasing 
confidence.  Rose  did  not  fail  to  expose  their  weak- 
ness or  fallacy  in  such  clear  light  that  Irene, 
though  she  tried  to  shut  her  eyes  against  the  truth 
presented  by  Rose,  could  not  help  seeing  it.  Her 
replies  were  not,  under  these  circumstances,  very- 
satisfactory,  for  she  was  unable  to  speak  in  a  free, 
assenting,  confiding  spirit.  The  consequence  was 
natural.  Mrs.  Talbot  ceased  to  write,  and  Irene 
did  not  regret  the  broken  correspondence.  Once 
Mrs.  Lloyd  wrote.  When  Irene  broke  the  seal 
and  let  her  eyes  rest  upon  the  signature,  a  shudder 
of  repulsion  ran  through  her  frame,  and  the  letter 
dropped  from  her  hands  to  the  floor.  As  if  pos- 
sessed by  a  spirit  whose  influence  over  her  she 
could  not  control,  she  caught  up  the  unread  sheet 
and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  As  the  flames  seized 
upon  and  consumed  it,  she  drew  a  long  breath  and 
murmured, 

"  So  perish  the  memory  of  our  acquaintance  !" 


230  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

Almost  a  dead  letter  of  suffering  had  been  those 
two  years.  Th<  re' are  no  events  to  record,  and  but 
little  progress  to  state.  Yes,  there  had  been  a  dead 
level  of  suffering — a  palsied  condition  of  heart  and 
iniud ;  a  period  of  almost  sluggish  endurance,  in 
which  pride  and  an  indomitable  will  gave  strength 
to  bear. 

Mr.  Delancy  and  his  daughter  were  sitting,  as 
we  have  seen,  on  that  sweet  June  day,  in  silent  ab- 
straction of  thought,  when  the  serving-man,  who 
had  been  to  the  village,  stepped  into  the  portico 
and  handed  Irene  a  letter.  The  sight  of  it  caused 
her  heart  to  leap  and  the  blood  to  crimson  sud- 
denly her  face.  It  was  not  an  ordinary  letter — 
one  in  such  a  shape  had  never  come  to  her  hand 
before. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  asked  her  father,  coming  back 
as  it  were  to  life. 

"  I  don't  know/'  she  answered,  with  an  effort  to 
appear  indifferent. 

Mr.  Delancy  looked  at  his  daughter  with  a  per- 
plexed manner,  and  then  let  his  eyes  fall  upon  the 
legal  envelope  in  her  hand,  on  which  a  large  red 
seal  was  impressed. 

Rising  in  a  quiet  way,  Irene  left  the  portico  with 
slow  steps;  but  no  sooner  was  she  beyond  hei 
father's  observation  than  she  moved  toward  her 
chamber  with  winged  feet. 

"  Bless  me,  Miss,  Irene !"  exclaimed  Margaret, 
who  met  her  on  the  stairs,  "  what  has  happened  f 


THE  IRREVOCABLE  DECREE.  231 

But  Irene  swept  by  her  without  a  response/  and, 
entering  her  room,  shut  the  door  and  locked  it. 
Margaret  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  and  then, 
going  back  to  her  young  lady's  chamber,  knocked 
for  admission.  There  was  no  answer  to  her  sum- 
mons, and  she  knocked  again. 

"Who  is  it?" 

She  hardly  knew  the  voice.- 

"  It  is  Margaret.     Can't  I  come  in  ?" 

"  Not  now,"  was  answered. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Miss  Irene  ?" 

"  Nothing,  Margaret.     I  wish  to  be  alone  now." 

"  Something  has  happened,  though,  or  you'd 
never  look  just  like  that,"  said  Margaret  to  herself, 
as  she  went  slowly  down  stairs.  "  Oh  dear,  dear ! 
Poor  child !  there's  nothing  but  trouble  for  her  in 
this  world." 

It  was  some  minutes  before  Irene  found  courage 
to  break  the  imposing  seal  and  look  at  the  commu- 
nication within.  She  guessed  at  the  contents,  and 
was  not  wrong.  They  informed  her,  in  legal 
phrase,  that  her  husband  had  filed  an  application 
for  a  divorce  on  the  ground  of  desertion,  and  gave 
notice  that  any  resistance  to  this  application  must 
be  on  file  on  or  before  a  certain  date. 

The  only  visible  sign  of  feeling  that  responded 
to  this  announcement  was  a  deadly  paleness  and  a 
slight,  nervous  crushing  of  the  paper  in  her  hands. 
Moveless  as  a  thing  inanimate,  she  sat  with  fixed, 
dreamy  eyes  for  a  long,  long  time. 


232  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

A  divorce !  She  had  looked  for  this  daily  for 
more  than  a  year,  and  often  wondered  at  her  hus- 
band's tardiness.  Had  she  desired  it?  Ah,  that 
is  the  probing  question.  Had  she  desired  an  act 
of  law  to  push  them  fully  asunder — to  make  the 
separation  plenary  in  all  respects?  No.  She  did 
not  really  wish  for  the  irrevocable  sundering  decree. 

Since  her  return  to  her  father's  house,  the  whole 
life  of  Irene  had  been  marked  by  great  circumspec- 
tion. The  trial  through  which  she  had  passed  was 
enough  to  sober  her  mind  and  turn  her  thoughts  in 
some  new  directions ;  and  this  result  had  followed. 
Pride,  self-will  and  impatience  of  control  found  no 
longer  any  spur  to  reactive  life,  and  so  her  interest 
in  woman's  rights,  social  reforms  and  all  their  con- 
comitants died  away,  for  lack  of  a  personal  bearing. 
At  first  there  had  been  warm  arguments  with  Miss 
Carman  on  these  subjects,  but  these  grew  gradu- 
ally less  earnest,  and  were  finally  avoided  by  both, 
as  not  only  unprofitable,  but  distasteful.  Gradu- 
ally this  wise  and  true  friend  had  quickened  in  the 
mind  of  Irene  an  interest  in  things  out  of  herself. 
There  are  in  every  neighborhood  objects  to  awaken 
our  sympathies,  if  we  will  only  look  at  and  think 
of  them.  "  The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you." 
Not  the  physically  poor  only,  but,  in  larger  num- 
bers, the  mentally  and  spiritually  poor.  The  hands 
of  no  one  need  lie  idle  a  moment  for  lack  of  work, 
for  it  is  no  vague  form  of  speech  to  say  that  the 
harvest  is  great  and  the  laborers  few. 


THE  IRREVOCABLE  DECREE.  233 

There  were  ripe  harvest-fields  around  Ivy  Cliff, 
though  Irene  had  rot  observed  the  golden  grain 
bending  its  head  for  the  sickle  until  Rose  led  her 
feet  in  the  right  direction.  Not  many  of  the  natu- 
rally poor  were  around  them,  yet  some  required 
even  bodily  ministrations — children,  the  sick  and 
the  aged.  The  destitution  that  most  prevailed  was 
of  the  mind ;  and  this  is  the  saddest  form  of  pov- 
erty. Mental  hunger!  how  it  exhausts  the  soul 
and  debases  its  heaven-born  faculties,  sinking  it 
into  a  gross  corporeal  sphere,  that  is  only  a  little 
removed  from  the  animal !  To  feed  the  hungry 
and  clothe  the  naked  mean  a  great  deal  more  than 
the  bestowal  of  food  and  raiment ;  yes,  a  great  deal 
more ;  and  we  have  done  but  a  small  part  of  Chris- 
tian duty — have  obeyed  only  in  the  letter — when 
we  supply  merely  the  bread  that  perishes. 

Rose  Carman  had  been  wisely  instructed,  and 
she  was  an  apt  scholar.  Nov/,  from  a  learner  she 
became  a  teacher,  and  in  the  suffering  Irene  found 
one  ready  to  accept  the  higher  truths  that  governed 
her  life,  and  to  act  with  her  in  giving  them  a  real 
ultimation.  So,  in  the  two  years  which  had  woven 
their  web  of  new  experiences  for  the  heart  of  Irene, 
she  had  been  drawn  almost  imperceptibly  by  Rose 
iutc  fields  of  labor  where  the  work  that  left  her 
hands  was,  she  saw,  good  work,  and  must  endure 
for  ever.  What  peace  it  often  brought  to  her  stri- 
ving spirit,  when,  but  for  the  sustaining  and  pro- 
tecting power  of  good  deeds,  she  would  have  beea 


234  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

swept  out  upon  the  waves  of  turbulent  passion — 
tossed  and  beaten  there  until  her  exhausted  heart 
sunk  down  arnid  the  waters,  and  lay  dead  for  a 
while  at  the  bottom  of  her  great  sea  of  trouble ! 

It  was  better — oh.  how  much  better! — when  she 
laid  her  head  at  night  on  her  lonely  pillow,  to  have 
in  memory  the  face  of  a  poor  sick  woman,  which 
had  changed  from  suifering  to  peace  as  she  talked 
to  her  of  higher  things  than  the  body's  needs,  and 
bore  her  mind  up  into  a  region  of  tranquil  thought, 
than  to  be  left  with  no  image  to  dwell  upon  but  an 
image  of  her  own  shattered  hopes.  Yes,  this  was 
far  better ;  and  by  the  power  of  such  memories  the 
unhappy  one  had  many  peaceful  seasons  and  nights 
of  sweet  repose. 

All  around  Ivy  Cliff,  Irene  and  Rose  were  known 
as  ministrant  spirits  to  the  poor  and  humble.  The 
father  of  Rose  was  a  man  of  wealth,  and  she  had 
his  entire  sympathy  and  encouragement.  Irene 
had  no  regular  duties  at  home,  Margaret  being 
housekeeper  and  directress  in  all  departments.  So 
there  was  nothing  to  hinder  the  free  course  of  her 
will  as  to  the  employment  of  time.  With  all  her 
pride  of  independence,  the  ease  with  which  Mrs. 
Talbot  drew  Irene  in  one  direction,  and  now  Miss 
Carman  in  another,  showed  how  easily  she  might 
l>e  influenced  when  off  her  guard.  This  is  true  in 
most  cases  of  your  very  self-willed  people,  and  the 
reason  why  so  many  of  them  get  astray.  Only 
conceal  the  hand  that  leads  them,  and  you  may 


THE  IRREVOCABLE  DECREE.  235 

often  take  them  "where  you  will.  Ah,  if  Hartley 
Emerson  had  been  wise  enough,  prudent  enough 
and  loving  enough  to  have  influenced  aright  the 
fine  young  spirit  he  was  seeking  to  make  one  \yith 
his  own,  how  different  would  the  result  have  been ! 

In  the  region  round  about,  our  two  young  friends 
came  in  time  to  be  known  as  the  "  Sisters  of  Cha- 
rity." It  was  not  said  of  them  mockingly,  nor  in 
gay  depreciation,  nor  in  mean  ill-nature,  but  in 
expression  of  a  common  sentiment,  that  recognized 
their  high,  self-imposed  mission. 

Thus  it  had  been  with  Irene  since  her  retu>  u  to 
the  old  home  at  Ivy  Cliff. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

STRUCK   VOWX. 

@ES,  Irene  had  looked  for  this — looked  for  it 
daily  for  now  more  than  a  year.  Still  it  came 
upon  her  with  a  shock  that  sent  a  strange, 
wild  shudder  through  all  her  being.  A  di- 
vorce !  She  was  less  prepared  for  it  than  she  had 
ever  been. 

What  was  beyond  ?  Ah  I  that  touched  a  chord 
which  gave  a  thrill  of  pain.  What  was  beyond? 
A  new  alliance,  of  course.  Legal  disabilities  re- 
moved, Hartley  Emerson  would  take  upon  himself 
new  marriage  vows.  Could  she  say,  "  Yea,  and 
amen"  to  this  ?  No,  alas  !  no.  There  was  a  feel- 
ing of  intense,  irrepressible  anguish  away  down  in 
heart-regions  that  lay  far  beyond  the  lead-line  of 
prior  consciousness.  What  did  •  it  mean  ?  She 
asked  herself  the  question  with  a  fainting  spirit. 
Had  she  not  known  herself  ?  Were  old  states  of 
tenderness,  which  she  had  believed  crushed  out  and 
dead  along  ago,  hidden  away  in  secret  places  of  her 
heart,  and  kept  there  safe  from  harm  ? 

No  wonder  she  sat  pale  and  still,  crumpling 
nervously  that  fatal  document  which  had  startled 
her  with  a  new  revelation  of  herself.  There  waa 

235 


STR  UCK  DO  WN.  237 

love  in  her  heart  still,  and  she  knew  it  not.     For 
a  long  time  she  sat  like  one  in  a  dream. 

"God  help  me!"  she  said  at  length,  looking 
around  her  in  a  wild,  bewildered  manner.  "  What 
does  all  this  mean  ?" 

There  came  at  this  moment  a  gentle  tap  at  her 
door.  She  knew  whose  soft  hand  had  given  the 
sound. 

"  Irene,"  exclaimed  Rose  Carman,  as  she  took 
the  hand  of  her  friend  and  looked  into  her  changed 
countenance,  "  what  ails  you  ?" 

Irene  turned  her  face  partly  away  to  get  control 
of  its  expression. 

"  Sit  down,  Rose,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could 
trust  herself  to  speak. 

They  sat  down  together,  Rose  troubled  and  won- 
dering. Irene  then  handed  her  friend  the  notice 
which  she  had  received.  Miss  Carman  read  it,  but 
made  no  remark  for  some  time. 

"  It  has  disturbed  you,"  she  said  at  length,  seeing 
that  Irene  continued  silent. 

"  Yes,  more  than  I  could  have  believed,"  an- 
swered Irene.  Her  voice  had  lost  its  familiar 
tones. 

'  You  have  expected  this  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  you  were  prepared  for  it." 

"And  I  am,"  replied  Irene,  speaking  with  more 
firmness  of  manner.  "Expectation  grows  so  nerv- 
ous, sometimes,  that  when  the  event  comes  it  falls 


238  A  FTER  THE  STOhM. 

upon  us  with  a  painful  shook.  This  is  my  case 
uow.  I  would  have  felt  it  less  severely  if  it  had 
occurred  six  months  ago." 

"  What  will  you  do?"  asked  Kose. 

"Do?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"  Resist  the  application,  if  you  will." 

"  But  I  will  not,"  answered  Irene,  firmly.  "  He 
signifies  his  wishes  in  the  case,  and  those  wishes 
must  determine  everything.  I  will  remain 
passive." 

"  And  let  the  divorce  issue  by  default  of  an- 
Bwer?" 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  faintness  of  tone  which  Rose  could 
not  help  remarking. 

"  Yes,"  Irene  added,  "  he  desires  this  complete 
separation,  and  I  can  have  nothing  to  say  in  oppo- 
sition. I  left  him,  and  have  remained  ever  since 
a  stranger  to  his  home  and  heart.  We  are  nothing 
to  each  other,  and  yet  are  bound  together  by  the 
strongest  of  bonds.  Why  should  he  not  wish  to 
be  released  from  these  bonds  ?  And  if  he  desires 
it.  I  have  nothing  to  say.  We  are  divorced  in  fact 
— why  then  retain  the  form  ?" 

"  There  may  be  a  question  of  the  fact,"  said 
Rose. 

"  Yes ;  I  understand  you.  We  have  discussed 
that  point  fully.  Your  view  may  be  right,  but  I 


STRUCK  DOWN.  23i; 

do  not  sec  it  clearly.  I  will  at  least  remain  pas- 
sive. The  responsibility  shall  rest  with  him." 

No  life  or  color  came  back  to  the  face  of  Irene. 
She  looked  as  cold  as  marble ;  not  cold  without 
feeling,  but  with  intense  feeling  recorded  as  in  a 
piece  of  sculpture. 

There  were  deeds  of  kindness  and  mercy  set 
down  in  the  purposes  of  our  young  friend,  and  it 
was  to  go  forth  and  perform  them  that  Rose  had 
called  for  Irene  this  morning.  But  only  one  Sister 
of  Charity  went  to  the  field  that  day,  and  only  one 
for  many  days  afterward. 

Irene  could  not  recover  from  the  shock  of  this 
legal  notice.  It  found  her  less  prepared  than  she 
had  been  at  any  time  during  the  last  two  years  of 
separation.  Her  life  at  Ivy  Cliff  had  not  been 
favorable  to  a  spirit  of  antagonism  and  accusation, 
nor  favorable  to  a  self-approving  judgment  of  her- 
self when  the  past  came  up,  as  it  often  came,  strive 
as  she  would  to  cover  it  as  with  a  veil.  She  had 
grown  in  this  night  of  suffering,  less  self-willed 
and  blindly  impulsive.  Some  scales  had  dropped 
from  her  eyes,  and  she  saw  clearer.  Yet  no  re- 
pentance for  that  one  act  of  her  life,  which  involved 
a  scries  of  consequences  beyond  the  reach  of  con- 
jecture, had  found  a  place  in  her  heart.  There 
was  no  looking  back  from  this — no  sober  question- 
ing as  to  the  right  or  necessity  which  had  been  in- 
volved. There  had  been  one  great  mistake — so 
she  decided  the  case — and  that  was  the  marriage. 


240  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

From  this  fatal  error  all  subsequent  evil  was 
born. 

Months  of  waiting  and  expectation  followed,  and 
then  came  a  decree  annulling  the  marriage. 

"  It  is  well,"  was  the  simple  response  of  Irene 
when  notice  of  the  fact  reached  her. 

Not  even  to  Rose  Carman  did  she  reveal  a 
thought  that  took  shape  in  her  mind,  nor  betray  a 
single  emotion  that  trembled  in  her  heart.  If 
there  had  been  less  appearance  of  indifference — less 
avoidance  of  the  subject — her  friends  would  have 
felt  more  comfortable  as  to  her  state  of  mind.  The 
unnatural  repose  of  exterior  was  to  them  signifi- 
cant of  a  strife  within  which  she  wished  to  conceal 
from  all  eyes. 

About  this  time  her  true,  loving  friend,  Miss 
Carman,  married.  Irene  did  not  stand  as  one  of 
the  bridemaids  at  the  ceremony.  Rose  gently 
hinted  her  wishes  in  the  case,  but  Irene  shrunk 
from  the  position,  and  her  feeling  was  respected. 
The  husband  of  Rose  was  a  merchant,  residing  in 
New  York,  named  Everet.  After  a  short  bridal 
tour  she  went  to  her  new  home  in  the  city.  Mr. 
Everet  was  five  or  six  years  her  senior,  and  a  man 
worthy  to  be  her  life-companion.  No  sudden  at- 
tachment had  grown  up  between  them.  Eor  years 
they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting,  and  in  this 
time  the  character  of  each  had  been  clearly  read  by 
the  other.  When  Mr.  Everet  asked  the  maiden's 
hand,  it  was  yielded  without  a  sign  of  hesitation. 


STRUCK  DOWN.  241 

The  removal  of  Rose  from  the  neighborhood  of 
Ivy  Cliff  greatly  disturbed  the  even-going  tenor 
of  Irene's  life.  It  withdrew  also  a  prop  on  which 
she  had  leaned  often  in  "times  of  weakness,  which 
would  recur  very  heavily. 

"  How  can  I  live  without  you  ?"  she  said  in 
tears,  as  she  sat  alone  with  the  new-made  bride  on 
the  eve  of  her  departure ;  "  you  have  been  every- 
thing to  me,  Rose — strength  in  weakness ;  light, 
when  all  around  was  cold  and  dark ;  a  guide  when 
I  had  lost  my  way.  God  bless  and  make  you 
happy,  darling!  And  he  will.  Hearts  like  yours 
create  happiness  wherever  they  go." 

"  My  new  home  will  only  be  a  few  hours'  dis- 
tant," replied  Rose;  "  I  shall  see  you  there  often." 

Irene  sighed.  She  had  been  to  the  city  only  a 
few  times  since  that  sad  day  of  separation  from  her 
husband.  Could  she  return  again  and  enter  one 
of  its  bright  social  circles  ?  Her  heart  said  no. 
But  love  drew  her  too  strongly.  In  less  than  a 
month  after  Rose  became  the  mistress  of  a  stately 
mansion,  Irene  was  her  guest.  This  was  just  six 
years  from  the  time  when  she  set  up  her  home  there, 
a  proud  and  happy  young  wife.  Alas  !  that  hearth 
was  desolate,  "  its  bright  fire  quenched  and  gone." 

It  was  best  for  Irene  thus  to  get  back  again  into 
a  wider  social  sphere — to  make  some  new  friends, 
and  those  of  a  class  that  such  a  woman  as  Mrs. 
Everet  would  naturally  draw  around  her.  Three 
years  of  suffering,  and  the  effort  to  lead  a  life  of 

16 


242  AFTER  THE 

self-denial  and  active  interest  in  others,  had 
wrought  in  Irene  a  great  change.  The  old,  flash- 
ing ardor  of  manner  was  gone.  If  she  grew  ani- 
mated in  conversation,  as  she  often  did  from  tem- 
perament, her  face  would  light  up  beautifully,  but 
it  did  not  show  the  radiance  of  old  times.  Thought, 
more  than  feeling,  gave  its  living  play  to  her  coun- 
tenance. All  who  met  her  were  attracted;  as  her 
history  was  known,  observation  naturally  took  the 
form  of  close  scrutiny.  People  wished  to  find  the 
angular  and  repellant  sides  of  her  character  in  or- 
der to  see  how  far  she  might  be  to  blame.  But 
they  were  not  able  to  discover  them.  On  the  sub- 
jects of  woman's  rights,  domestic  tyranny,  sexual 
equality  and  all  kindred  themes  she  was  guarded 
in  speech.  She  never  introduced  them  herself,  and 
said  but  little  when  they  formed  the  staple  of  con- 
versation. 

Even  if,  in  three  years  of  intimate,  almost  daily, 
association  with  Rose,  she  had  not  learned  to  think 
in  some  new  directions  on  these  bewildering  ques- 
tions, certain  womanly  instincts  must  have  set  a 
seal  upon  her  lips.  Not  for  all  the  world  would 
she,  to  a  stranger — no,  nor  to  any  new  friend — ut- 
ter a  sentiment  that  could  in  the  least  degree  give 
color  to  the  thought  that  she  wished  to  throw  even 
the  faintest  shadow  of  blame  on  Hartley  Emerson. 
Not  that  she  was  ready  to  take  blame  to  herself, 
or  give  the  impression  that  fault  rested  by  her 
door.  No.  The  subject  was  sacred  to  herself,  and 


STRUCK  DOWN.  2-13 

she  asked  no  sympathy  and  granted  no  confidences. 
There  were  those  who  sought  to  draw  her  out,  who 
watched  her  face  and  words  with  keen  intentness 
when  certain  themes  were  discussed.  But  they 
were  unable  to  reach  the  penetralia  of  her  heart. 
There  was  a  chamber  of  record  there  into  which  no 
one  could  enter  but  herself. 

Since  the  separation  of  Irene  from  her  husband, 
Mr.  Delancy  had  shown  signs  of  rapid  failure. 
His  heart  was  bound  up  in  his  daughter,  who,  with 
all  her  captious  self-will  and  impulsiveness,  loved 
him  with  a  tenderness  and  fervor  that  never  knew 
change  or  eclipse.  To  see  her  make  shipwreck  of 
life's  dearest  hopes — to  know  that  her  name  was 
spoken  by  hundreds  in  reprobation — to  look  daily 
on  her  quiet,  changing,  suffering  face,  was  more 
than  his  fond  heart  could  bear.  It  broke  him 
down.  This  fact,  more  perhaps,  than  her  own  sad 
experiences,  tended  to  sober  the  mind  of  Irene, 
and  leave  it  almost  passive  under  the  right  influ- 
ences of  her  wise  young  friend. 

After  the  removal  of  Rose  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Ivy  Cliff,  the  health  of  Mr.  Delancy  failed 
still  more  rapidly,  and  in  a  few  months  the  brief 
visits  of  Irene  to  her  friend  in  New  York  had  to  be 
intermitted.  She  could  no  longer  venture  to  leave 
her  father,  even  under  the  care  of  their  faithful 
Margaret.  A  sad  winter  for  Irene  succeeded.  Mr. 
Delancy  drooped  about  until  after  Christmas,  in  a 
weary,  listless  way,  taking  little  interest  in  any- 


244  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

thing,  and  bearing  both  physical  and  mental  con- 
sciousness as  a  burden  it  would  be  pleasant  to  lay 
down.  Early  in  January  he  had  to  give  up  and 
go  to  bed;  and  now  the  truth  of  his  condition 
startled  the  mind  of  Irene  and  filled  her  with 
alarm.  By  slow,  insidious  encroachments,  that 
dangerous  enemy,  typhoid  fever,  had  gained  a  lodg- 
ment in  the  very  citadel  of  life,  and  boldly  revealed 
itself,  defying  the  healer's  art.  For  weeks  the  dim 
light  of  mortal  existence  burned  with  a  low,  wav- 
ering flame,  that  any  sudden  breath  of  air  might 
extinguish ;  then  it  grew  steady  again,  increased, 
and  sent  a  few  brighter  rays  into  the  darkness 
which  had  gathered  around  Ivy  Cliff. 

Spring  found  Mr.  Delancy  strong  enough  to  sit, 
propped  up  with  pillows,  by  the  window  of  his 
chamber,  and  look  out  upon  the  newly-mantled 
trees,  the  green  fields,  and  the  bright  river  flashing 
in  the  sunshine.  The  heart  of  Irene  took  courage 
again.  The  cloud  which  had  lain  upon  it  all 
winter  like  a  funereal  pall  dissolved,  and  went 
floating  away  and  wasting  itself  in  dim  expanses. 

Alas,  that  all  this  sweet  promise  was  but  a 
mockery  of  hope !  A  sudden  cold,  how  taken  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  tell — for  Irene  guarded 
her  father  as  tenderly  as  if  he  were  a  new-born  in- 
fant— disturbed  life's  delicate  equipoise,  and  the 
scale  turned  fatally  the  wrong  way. 

Poor  Irene!  She  had  only  staggered  under 
former  blows — this  one  struck  her  down.  Had 


STRUCK  DOWN.  245 

.ife  anything  to  offer  now  ?  "  Nothing  1  nothing!" 
she  said  in  her  heart,  and  prayed  that  she  might 
die  and  be  at  rest  with  her  father. 

Months  of  stupor  followed  this  great  sorrow ; 
then  her  heart  began  to  beat  again  with  some  in- 
terest in  life.  There  was  one  friend,  almost  her 
only  friend — for  she  now  repelled  nearly  every  one 
who  approached  her — who  never  failed  in  hopeful, 
comforting,  stimulating  words  and  offices,  who 
visited  her  frequently  in  her  recluse  life  at  Ivy 
Cliff,  and  sought  with  untiring  assiduity  to  win  her 
once  more  away  from  its  dead  seclusion.  And  she 
was  at  last  successful.  In  the  winter  after  Mr. 
Delancy's  death,  Irene,  after  much  earnest  per- 
suasion, consented  to  pass  a  few  weeks  in  the  city 
with  Mrs.  Everet.  This  gained,  her  friend  was 
certain  of  all  the  rest. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

THE    HAUNTED   VISION. 

RADUALLY  the  mind  of  Irene  attained 
clearness  of  perception  as  to  duty,  and  a 
firmness  of  will  that  led  her  to  act  in  obe- 
dience to  what  reason  and  religion  taught  he* 
was  right.  The  leading  idea  which  Mrs.  Everet 
endeavored  to  keep  before  her  was  this :  that  no 
happiness  is  possible,  except  in  some  work  that  re- 
moves self-consciousness  and  fills  our  minds  with 
an  interest  in  the  well-being  of  others.  While 
Kose  was  at  Ivy  Cliff,  Irene  acted  with  her,  and 
was  sustained  by  her  love  and  companionship. 
After  her  marriage  and  removal  to  New  York, 
Irene  was  left  to  stand  alone,  and  this  tried  her 
strength.  It  was  feeble.  The  sickness  and  deatn 
of  her  father  drew  her  back  again  into  herself,  and 
for  a  time  extinguished  all  interest  in  what  was  on 
the  outside.  To  awaken  a  new  and  higher  life  was 
the  aim  of  her  friend,  and  she  never  wearied  in  her 
generous  efforts.  During  this  winter  plans  were 
matured  for  active  usefulness  in  the  old  spher0*-, 
and  Mrs.  Everet  promised  to  pass  as  much  time  in 
the  next  summer  with  her  father  as  possible,  so  as  to 
act  with  Irene  in  the  development  of  these  schemes. 

246 


THE  HAUXTED    VISION.  247 

The  first  warm  days  of  summer  found  Irene 
back  again  in  her  home  at  Ivy  Cliff.  Her  visit  in 
New  York  had  been  prolonged  far  beyond  the  limit 
assigned  to  it  in  the  beginning,  but  Rose  would  not 
consent  to  an  earlier  return.  This  winter  of  daily 
life  with  Mrs.  Everet,  in  the  unreserved  intercourse 
of  home,  \vas  of  great  use  to  Irene.  Affliction  had 
mellowed  all  the  harder  portions  of  her  disposition, 
which  the  trouble  and  experiences  of  the  past  few 
years  could  not  reach  with  their  softening  influ- 
ences. There  was  good  soil  in  her  mind,  well 
prepared,  and  the  sower  failed  not  in  the  work  of 
scattering  good  seed  upon  it  with  a  liberal  hand- 
seed  that  felt  soon  a  quickening  life  and  swelled  in 
the  delight  of  coming  germination. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  record  the  history  of 
Irene  during  the  years  of  her  discipline  at  Ivy 
Cliff,  where  she  lived,  nun-like,  for  the  larger  part 
of  her  time.  She  had  useful  work  there,  and  in 
its  faithful  performance  peace  came  to  her  troubled 
joul.  Three  or  four  times  every  year  she  paid  a 
visit  to  Rose,  and  spent  on  each  occasion  from  pne 
to  three  or  four  weeks.  It  could  not  but  happen 
that  in  these  visits  congenial  friendships  would 
be  made,  and  tender  remembrances  go  back  with 
her  into  the  seclusion  of  her  country  home,  to 
remain  as  sweet  companions  in  her  hours  of  lone- 
liness. 

It  \vas  something  remarkable  that,  during  the 
six  or  seven  years  which  followed  Irene's  separa- 


248  AFTER  THE  STOKM. 

tion  from  her  husband,  she  had  never  seen  him. 
He  was  still  a  resident  of  New  York,  and  well 
known  as  a  rapidly  advancing  member  of  the  bar. 
Occasionally  his  name  met  her  eyes  in  the  newspa- 
pers, as  connected  with  some  important  suit;  but, 
beyond  this,  his  life  M^IS  to  her  a  dead  letter.  He 
might  be  married  again,  for  all  she  knew  to  the 
contrary.  But  she  never  dwelt  on  that  thought; 
its  intrusion  always  disturbed  her,  and  that  pro- 
foundly. 

And  how  was  it  with  Hartley  Emerson?  Had 
he  again  tried  the  experiment  which  once  so  sig- 
nally failed?  No;  he  had  not  ventured  upon  the 
eea  whose  depths  held  the  richest  vessel  he  had 
freighted  in  life.  Visions  of  loveliness  had  floated 
before  him,  and  he  had  been  lured  by  them,  a  few 
time?,  out  of  his  beaten  path.  But  he  carried  in 
his  memory  a  picture  that,  when  his  eyes  turned 
inward,  held  their  gaze  so  fixedly  that  all  other 
images  grew  dim  or  unlovely.  And  so,  with  a 
sigh,  he  would  turn  again  to  the  old  way  and  move 
on  as  before. 

But  the  past  was  irrevocable.  "  And  shall  I," 
he  began  to  say  to  himself,  "  for  this*  one  great  error 
of  my  youth — this  blind  mistake — pass  a  desolate 
and  fruitless  life?" 

Oftener  and  oftener  the  question  was  repeated  in 
his  thoughts,  until  it  found  answer  in  an  emphatic 
No  !  Then  he  looked  around  with  a  new  interest, 
and  went  more  into  society.  Soon  one  fair  face 


THE  HAUNTED   VISION.  249 

came  more  frequently  before  the  eyes  of  his  mind 
than  any  other  face,  He  saw  it  as  he  sat  in  his 
law-office,  saw  it  on  the  page  of  his  book  as  he 
read  in  the  evening,  lying  over  the  printed  words 
and  hiding  from  his  thoughts  their  meaning ;  saw 
it  in  dreams.  The  face  haunted  him.  How  long 
was  this  since  that  fatal  night  of  discord  and  sepa- 
ration ?  Ten  years.  So  long  ?  Yes,  so  long. 
Ten  weary  years  had  made  their  record  upon  his 
book  of  life  and  upon  hers.  Ten  weary  years! 
The  discipline  of  this  time  had  not  worked  on 
either  any  moral  deterioration.  Both  were  yet 
sound  to  the  core,  and  both  were  building  up  cha- 
racters based  on  the  broad  foundations  of  virtue. 

Steadily  that  face  grew  into  a  more  living  dis- 
tinctness, haunting  his  daily  thoughts  and  nightly 
visions.  Then  new  life-pulses  began  to  throb  in 
his  heart ;  new  emotions  to  tremble  over  its  long 
calm  surface;  new  warmth  to  flow,  spring-like, 
into  the  indurated  soil.  This  face,  which  had 
begun  thus  to  dwell  with  him,  was  the  face  of  a 
maiden,  beautiful  to  look  upon.  He  had  met  her 
often  during  a  year,  and  from  the  beginning  of  their 
acquaintance  she  had  interested  him.  If  he  erred 
not,  the  interest  was  mutual.  From  all  points  of 
view  he  now  commenced  studying  her  character. 
Having  made  one  mistake,  he  was  fearful  and 
guarded.  Better  go  on  a  lonely  man  to  the  end  of 
life  than  again  have  his  love-freighted  bark  buried 
in  mid-ocean. 


250  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

At  last,  Emerson  was  satisfied.  He  had  found 
the  sweet  being  whose  life  could  blend  in  eternal 
oneness  with  his  own;  and  it  only  remained  for 
him  to  say  to  her  in  words  what  she  had  read  as 
plainly  as  written  language  in  his  eyes.  So  far  as 
she  was  concerned,  no  impediment  existed.  We 
will  not  say  that  she  was  ripe  enough  in  soul  to 
wed  with  this  man,  who  had  passed  through  expe- 
riences of  a  kind  that  always  develop  the  character 
broadly  and  deeply.  No,  for  such  was  not  the  case. 
She  was  too  young  and  inexperienced  to  understand 
him  ;  too  narrow  in  her  range  of  thought ;  too  much 
a  child.  But  something  in  her  beautiful,  innocent, 
sweet  young  face  had  won  his  heart;  and  in  the 
weakness  of  passion,  not  in  the  manly  strength  of 
a  deep  love,  he  had  boAved  down  to  a  shrine  at 
which  he  could  never  worship  and  be  satisfied. 

But  even  strong  men  are  weak  in  woman's  toils, 
and  Hartley  Emerson  was  a  captive. 

There  was  to  be  a  pleasure-party  on  one  of  the 
steamers  that  cut  the  bright  waters  of  the  fair 
Hudson,  and  Emerson  and  the  maiden,  whose  face 
was  now  his  daily  companion,  were  to  be  of  the 
number.  He  felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  him 
to  speak  if  he  meant  to  speak  at  all — to  say  what 
was  in  his  thought,  or  turn  aside  and  let  another 
woo  and  win  the  lovely  being  imagination  had  al- 
ready pictured  as  the  sweet  companion  of  his  future 
home.  The  night  that  preceded  this  excursion  was 
a  sleepless  one  for  Hartley  Emerson.  Questions 


THE  HAUNTED   VISION.  251 

and  doubts,  scarcely  defined  in  his  thoughts  before, 
pressed  themselves  upon  him  and  demanded  a 
solution.  The  past  came  up  with  a  vividness  not 
experienced  for  years.  In  states  of  semi-conscious- 
ness— half-sleeping,  half-waking — there  returned  to 
him  such  life-like  realizations  of  events  long  ago 
recorded  in  his  memory,  and  covered  over  with  the 
dust  of  time,  that  he  started  from  them  to  full 
wakefulness,  with  a  heart  throbbing  in  wild  tumult. 
Once  there  was  presented  so  vivid  a  picture  of  Irene 
that  for  some  moments  he  was  unable  to  satisfy 
himself  that  all  these  ten  years  of  loneliness  were 
not  a  dream.  He  saw  her  as  she  stood  before  him 
on  that  ever-to-be-remembcred  night  and  said,  "1 
go  !"  Let  us  turn  back  and  read  the  record  of  her 
appearance  as  he  saw  her  then  and  now : 

"She  had  raised  her  eyes  from  the  floor,  and 
turned  them  full  upon  her  husband.  Her  face  was 
not  so  pale.  Warmth  had  come  back  to  the  deli- 
cate skin,  flushing  it  with  beauty.  She  did  not 
stand  before  him  an  impersonation  of  anger,  dislike 
or  rebellion.  There  was  not  a  repulsive  attitude 
or^expression.  No  flashing  of  the  eyes,  nor  even 
the  cold,  diamond  glitter  seen  a  little  while  before. 
Slowly  turning  away,  she  left  the  room.  But  to 
her  husband  she  seemed  still  standing  there,  a 
lovely  vision.  There  had  fallen,  in  that  instant  of 
time,  a  sunbeam,  which  fixed  the  image  upon  his 
memory  in  imperishable  colors." 

Emerson  groaned  as  he  fell  back  upon  his  pillow 


252  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

and  shut  his  eyes.  What  would  he  not  then  have 
given  for  one  full  draught  of  Lethe's  fabled  waters. 

Morning  came  at  last,  its  bright  beams  dispers- 
ing the  shadows  of  night;  and  with  it  came  back 
the  warmth  of  his  new  passion  and  his  purpose  on 
that  day,  if  the  opportunity  came,  to  end  all  doubt, 
by  offering  the  maiden  his  hand — we  do  not  say 
heart,  for  of  that  he  was  not  the  full  possessor. 

The  day  opened  charmingly,  and  the  pleasure- 
party  were  on  the  wing  betimes.  Emerson  felt  a 
sense  of  exhilaration  as  the  steamer  passed  out 
from  her  moorings  and  glided  writh  easy  grace 
along  the  city  front.  He  stood  upon  her  deck 
with  a  maiden's  hand  resting  on  his  arm,  the  touch 
of  which,  though  light  as  the  pressure  of  a  flower, 
was  felt  with  strange  distinctness.  The  shadows 
of  the  night,  which  had  brooded  so  darkly  over 
his  spirit,  were  gone,  and  only  a  dim  remembrance 
of  the  gloom  remained.  Onward  the  steamer 
glided,  sweeping  by  the  crowded  line  of  buildings 
and  moving  grandly  along,  through  palisades  of 
rock  on  one  side  and  picturesque  landscapes  on  the 
other,  until  bolder  scenery  stretched  away  and 
mountain  barriers  raised  themselves  against  the 
blue  horizon. 

There  was  a  large  number  of  passengers  on 
board,  scattered  over  the  decks  or  lingering  in  the 
cabins,  as  inclination  prompted.  The  observer  of 
faces  and  character  had  field  enough  for  study ;  but 
Hartley  Emerson  was  not  inclined  to  read  in  the 


THE  HAUNTED   VISION.  253 

book  of  character  on  tins  occasion.  One  subject 
occupied  his  thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others. 
There  had  come  a  period  that  was  full  of  interest 
and  fraught  with  momentous  consequences  which 
must  extend  through  all  of  his  after  years.  He 
saw  little  but  the  maiden  at  his  side — thought  of 
little  but  his  purpose  to  ask  her  to  walk  with  him, 
a  soul-companion,  in  the  journey  of  life. 

During  the  first  hour  there  was  a  constant  mov- 
ing to  and  fro  and  the  taking  up  of  new  positions 
by  the  passengers — a  hum  and  buzz  of  conversa- 
tion— laughing — exclamations — gay  talk  and  en- 
thusiasm. Then  a  quieter  tone  prevailed.  Solitary 
individuals  took  places  of  observation ;  groups 
seated  themselves  in  pleasant  circles  to  chat,  and 
couples  drew  away  into  cabins  or  retired  places,  or 
continued  the  promenade. 

Among  the  latter  were  Emerson  and  his  com- 
panion. Purposely  he  had  drawn  the  fair  girl 
away  from  their  party,  in  order  to  get  the  oppor- 
tunity he  desired.  He  did  not  mean  to  startle  her 
with  an  abrupt  proposal  here,  in  the  very  eye  of 
observation,  but  to  advance  toward  the  object  by 
slow  approaches,  marking  well  the, effect  of  his 
words,  and  receding  the  moment  he  saw  that,  in 
beginning  to  comprehend  him,  her  mind  showed 
repulsion  or  marked  disturbance. 

Thus  it  was  with  them  when  the  boat  entered 
the  Highlands  and  swept  onward  with  wind-like 
speed.  They  were  in  one  of  the  gorgeously  fur- 


254  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

nished  cabins,  rifting  together  on  a  sofa.  There 
had  been  earnest  talk,  but  on  some  subject  of  taste. 
Gradually  Emerson  changed  the  theme  and  began 
approaching  the  one  nearest  to  his  heart.  Slight 
embarrassment  followed;  his  voice  took  on  a  differ- 
ent tone;  it  was  lower,  tenderer,  more  deliberate  and 
impressive.  He  leaned  closer,  and  the  maiden  did 
not  retire;  she  understood  him,  and  was  waiting 
the  pleasure  of  his  speech  with  heart-throbbings 
that  seemed  as  if  they  must  be  audible  in  his  ears 
as  well  as  her  own. 

The  time  had  come.  Everything  was  propitious. 
The  words  that  would  have  sealed  his  fate  and  hers 
were  on  his  lips,  when,  looking  up,  he  knew  not 
why,  but  under  an  impulse  of  the  moment,  he  met 
two  calm  eyes  resting  upon  him  with  an  expression 
that  sent  the  blood  leaping  back  to  his  heart.  Two 
calm  eyes  and  a  pale,  calm  face  were  before  him  for 
a  moment ;  then  they  vanished  in  the  crowd.  But 
he  knew  them,  though  ten  years  lay  between  the 
last  vision  and  this. 

The  words  that  were  on  his  lips  died  unspoken, 
lie  could  not  have  uttered  them  if  life  or  death 
hung  on  the  issue.  No — no — no.  A  dead  silence 
followed. 

<l  Are  you  ill?"  asked  his  companion,  looking  at 
him  anxiously. 

"  Xo,  oh  no,"  he  replied,  trying  to  rally  himself. 

"  But  you  are  illy  Mr.  Emerson.  How  pale  your 
face  is!" 


THE  HAUNTED    VISION.  255 

"  It  will  pass  off  in  a  moment."  He  spoke  with 
an  effort  to  appear  self-possessed.  "  Let  us  go  on 
deck,"  he  added,  rising.  "  There  are  a  great  many 
people  in  the  cabin,  and  the  atmosphere  is  -op- 
pressive." 

A  dead  weight  fell  upon  the  maiden's  heart  as 
she  arose  and  went  on  deck  by  the  side  of  Mr. 
Emerson.  She  had  noticed  his  sudden  pause  and 
glance  across  the  cabin  at  the  instant  she  was  hold- 
ing her  breath  for  his  next  words,  but  did  not 
observe  the  object,  a  sight  of  which  had  wrought 
on  him  so  remarkable  a  change.  They  walked 
nearly  the  entire  length  of  the  boat,  after  getting 
on  deck,  before  Mr.  Emerson  spoke.  He  then  re- 
marked on  the  boldness  of  the  scenery  and  pointed 
out  interesting  localities,  but  in  so  absent  and  pre- 
occupied a  way  that  his  companion  listened  without 
replying.  In  a  little  while  he  managed  to  get  into 
the  neighborhood  of  three  or  four  of  their  party, 
with  whom  he  left  her,  and,  moving  away,  took  a 
position  on  the  upper  deck  just  over  the  gangway 
from  which  the  landings  were  made.  Here  he 
remained  until  the  boat  came  to  at  a  pier  on  which 
his  feet  had  stepped  lightly  many,  many  times. 
Ivy  Cliff  was  only  a  little  way  distant,  hidden 
from  view  by  a  belt  of  forest  trees.  The  pon- 
derous machinery  stood  still,  the  plunging  wheels 
stopped  their  muffled  roar,  and  in  the  brooding 
silence  that  followed  three  or  four  persons  stepped 
on  the  plank  which  had  been  thrown  out  and  passed 


256  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

to  the  shore.  A  single  form  alone  fixed  the  eyes 
of  Hartley  Emerson.  He  would  have  known  it 
on  the  instant  among  a  thousand.  It  was  that  of 
Irene.  Her  step  was  slow,  like  one  abstracted  in 
mind  or  like  one  in  feeble  health.  After  gaining 
the  landing,  she  stood  still  and  turned  toward  the 
boat,  when  their  eyes  met  again — met,  and  held 
each  other  by  a  spell  which  neither  had  power  to 
break.  The  fastenings  were  thrown  off,  the  engi- 
neer rung  his  bell ;  there  was  a  clatter  of  machinery, 
a  rush  of  waters  and  the  boat  glanced  onward. 
Then  Irene  started  like  one  suddenly  aroused  from 
Bleep  and  walked  rapidly  away. 

And  thus  they  met  for  the  first  time  after  a  sepa- 
ration of  ten  years. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  MINISTERING    ANGEL. 

CLATTER  of  machinery,  a  rush  of  waters, 
and  the  boat  glanced  onward  ;  but  still  Hart- 
y  Emerson  stood  motionless  and  statue-like, 
h>s  eyes  fixed  upon  the  shore,  until  the 
swiftly  gliding  vessel  bore  him  away,  and  the  ob- 
ject which  had  held  his  vision  by  a  kind  of  fasci- 
nation was  concealed  from  view. 

"  An  angel,  if  there  ever  was  one  on  this  side 
of  heaven !"  said  a  voice  close  to  his  ear.  Emer- 
son gave  a  start  and  turned  quickly.  A  man 
plainly  Pressed  stood  beside  him.  He  was  of  mid- 
dle age,  and  had  a  mild,  grave,  thoughtful  counte- 
nance. 

"  Of  tfhom  do  you  speak  ?"  asked  Emerson,  not 
able  entirely  to  veil  his  surprise. 

"  Of  the  lady  we  saw  go  ashore  at  the  landing 
just  now.  She  turned  and  looked  at  us.  You 
could  rot  help  noticing  her." 

"  Who  is  she  ?"  asked  Emerson,  and  then  held 
his  broath  awaiting  the  answer.  The  question  was 
almost  involuntary,  yet  prompted  by  a  suddenly 
awakened  desire  to  hear  the  world's  testimony  in 
regard  to  Irene. 

17  267 


258  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

"  You  don't  know  her,  then  ?"  remarked  the 
st  ranger. 

"  I  asked  \vho  she  was."  Emerson  intended  to 
Bay  this  firmly,  but  his  voice  was  unsteady.  "Let 
us  sit  down,"  he  added,  looking  around,  and  then 
leading  the  way  to  where  some  unoccupied  chairs 
were  standing.  By  the  time  they  were  seated  he 
had  gained  the  mastery. over  himself. 

';  You  don't  know  her,  then  ?"  said  the  man,  re- 
peating his  words.  "  She  is  well  known  about 
these  parts,  I  can  assure  you.  Why,  that  was  old 
Mr.  Delancy's  daughter.  Did  you  never  hear  of 
her?" 

"  What  about  her?"  was  asked. 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  she  was  married  some 
ten  or  twelve  years  ago  to  a  lawyer  down  in  New 
York ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  they  didn't  live 
very  happily  together — why,  I  never  heard.  I 
don't  believe  it  was  her  fault,  for  she's  the  sweetest, 
kindest,  gentlest  lady  it  has  ever  been  my  good 
fortune  to  meet.  Some  people  around  Ivy  Cliff 
cuU  her  the  '  Angel,'  and  the  word  has  meaning  in 
it  as  applied  to  her.  She  left  her  husband,  and  he 
gf.'t  a  divorce,  but  didn't  charge  anything  wrong 
against  her.  That,  I  suppose,  was  more  thau  he 
dared  to  do,  for  a  snow-flake  is  not  purer." 

"  You  have  lived  in  the  neighborhood  ?"  said 
Emerson,  keeping  his  face  a  little  averted. 

"  Oh  yes,  sir.  I  have  lived  about  here  pretty 
much  all  mv  life." 


THE  MINISTERING  ANGEL*  259 

"  Then  you  knew  Miss  Delancy  before  she  was 
married  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  I  can't  say  that  I  knew  much  about 
her  before  that  time.  I  used  to  see  her  now  and 
then  as  she  rode  about  the  neighborhood.  She 
was  a  gay,  wild  girl,  sir.  But  that  unhappy  mar- 
riage made  a  great  change  in  her.  I  cannot  forget 
the  first  time  I  saw  her  after  she  came  back  to  her 
father's.  She  seemed  to  me  older  by  many  years 
than  when  I  last  saw  her,  and  looked  like  one  just 
recovered  from  a  long  and  serious  illness.  The 
brightness  had  passed  from  her  face,  the  fire  from 
her  eyes,  the  spring  from  her  footsteps.  I  believe 
she  left  her  husband  of  her  own  accord,  but  I 
never  knew  that  she  made  any  complaint  against 
him.  Of  course,  people  were  very  curious  to  know 
why  she  had  abandoned  him.  But  her  lips  must 
have  been  sealed,  for  only  a  little  vague  talk  went 
floating  around.  I  never  heard  a  breath  of  wrong 
charged  against  him  as  coming  from  her." 

Emerson's  face  was  turned  still  more  away  from 
his  companion,  his  eyes  bent  down  and  his  brows 
firmly  knit.  He  did  not  ask  farther,  but  the  man 
was  on  a  theme  that  interested  him,  and  so  con- 
tinued. 

"  For  most  of  the  time  since  her  return  to  Ivy 
Cliff  the  life  of  Miss  Delancy  has  been  given  to 
Christian  charities.  The  death  of  her  father  was 
a  heavy  stroke,  It  took  the  life  out  of  her  for  a 
while.  Since  her  recovery  from  that  shock  she  has 


260  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

been  constantly  active  among  us  in  good  deeds. 
Poor  sick  women  know  the  touch  of  her  gentle 
hand  and  the  music  of  her  voice.  She  has  brought 
gunlight  into  many  wintry  homes,  and  kindled 
again  on  hearths  long  desolate  the  fires  of  loving 
kindness.  There  must  have  been  some  lack  of 
true  appreciation  on  the  part  of  her  husband,  sir. 
Bitter  fountains  do  not  send  forth  sweet  waters 
like  these.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?"  replied  Emerson,  a 
little  coldly.  The  question  was  sprung  upon  him 
so  suddenly  that  his  answer  was  given  in  confusion 
of  thought. 

"  We  all  have  our  opinions,  sir,"  said  the  man, 
"  and  this  seems  a  plain  case.  I've  heard  said  that 
her  husband  was  a  hot-headed,  self-willed,  ill- 
regulated  young  fellow,  no  more  fit  to  get  married 
than  to  be  President.  That  he  didn't  understand 
the  woman — or,  maybe,  I  should  say  child — whom 
he  took  for  his  wife  is  very  certain,  or  he  never 
would  have  treated  her  in  the  way  he  did !" 

"  How  did  he  treat  her  ?"  asked  Mr.  Emerson. 

"  As  to  that,"  replied  his  talkative  companion, 
"  we  don't  know  anything  certain.  But  we  shall 
not  go  far  wrong  in  guessing  that  it  was  neither 
wise  nor  considerate.  In  fact,  he  must  have  out- 
raged her  terribly." 

"  This,  I  presume,  is  the  common  impression 
about  Ivy  Cliff?" 

"No,"  said   the   man;  "I've  heard  him  well 


THE  MINISTERING  ANGEL.  261 

spoken  of.  The  fact  is,  people  are  puzzled  about 
the  matter.  We  can't  just  understand  it.  But, 
I'm  all  on  her  side." 

"I  wonder  she  has  not  married  again?"  said 
Emerson.  "  There  are  plenty  of  men  who  would 
be  glad  to  wed  so  perfect  a  being  as  you  represent 
her  to  be." 

"  She  marry  !"  There  was  indignation  and  sur- 
prise in  the  man's  voice. 

"Yes;  why  not?" 

"  Sir,  she  is  a  Christian  woman !" 

"  I  can  believe  that,  after  hearing  your  testimony 
in  regard  to  her,"  said  Emerson.  But  he  still  kept 
his  face  so  much  turned  aside  that  its  expression 
could  not  be  seen. 

"And  reads  her  Bible." 

"  As  we  all  should." 

"  And,  what  is  more,  believes  in  it,"  said  the  man 
emphatically. 

"  Don't  all  Christian  people  believe  in  the 
Bible  ?"  asked  Mr.  Emerson. 

"  I  suppose  so,  after  a  fashion ;  and  a  very  queer 
fashion  it  is,  sometimes." 

"  How  does  this  lady  of  whom  you  speak  be- 
lieve in  it  differently  from  some  others?" 

"•  In  this,  that  it  means  what  it  says  on  the  sub- 
ject of  divorce." 

"Oh,  I  understand.  You  think  that  if  she 
were  to  marry  again  it  would  be  in  the  face  of  con- 
scientious scruples  ?" 


262  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

«  I  do." 

Mr.  Emerson  was  about  asking  another  question 
when  one  of  the  party  to  which  he  belonged  joined 
him,  and  so  the  strange  interview  closed.  He 
bowed  to  the  man  with  whom  he  had  been  con- 
versing, and  then  passed  to  another  part  of  the 
boat. 

With  slow  steps,  that  were  unsteady  from  sud- 
den weakness,  Irene  moved  along  the  road  that  led 
to  her  home.  After  reaching  the  grounds  of  Ivy 
Cliff  she  turned  aside  into  a  small  summer-house, 
and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  windows  that  looked 
out  upon  the  river  as  it  stretched  upward  in  its 
gleaming  way.  The  boat  she  had  just  left  was  al- 
ready far  distant,  but  it  fixed  her  eyes,  and  they 
saw  no  other  object  until  it  passed  from  view 
around  a  wooded  point  of  land.  And  still  she  sat 
motionless,  looking  at  the  spot  where  it  had  van- 
ished from  her  sight. 

"  Miss  Irene  !"  exclaimed  Margaret,  the  faithful 
old  domestic,  who  still  bore  rule  at  the  homestead, 
breaking  in  upon  her  reverie,  "  what  in  the  world 
are  you  doing  here?  I  expected  you  up  to-day, 
and  when  the  boat  stopped  at  the  landing  and  you 
didn't  come,  I  was  uneasy  and  couldn't  rest.  Why, 
child,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You're  sick  !" 

"  Oh  no,  Margaret,  I'm  well  enough,"  said 
Irene,  trying  to  smile  indifferently.  And  she  arose 
and  left  the  summer-house. 

Kind,  observant  old  Margaret  was  far  from  L*- 


THE  MINISTERING  ANGEL.  2G3 

ing  satisfied,  however.  She  saw  that  Irene  was  not 
as  when  she  departed  for  the  city  a  week  before. 
If  she  were  not  sick  in  body,  she  was  troubled  in 
her  mind,  for  her  countenance  was  so  changed  that 
she  could  not  look  upon  it  without  feeling  a  pang 
in  her  heart. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  sick,  Miss  Irene,"  she  said,  as 
they  entered  the  house.  "  Now,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter? What  can  I  do  or  get  for  you?  Let  me 
send  over  for  Dr.  Edmondson  ?" 

"  No,  no,  my  good  Margaret,  don't  think  of 
such  a  thing,"  replied  Irene.  "  I'm  not  sick." 

"Something's  the  matter  with  you,  child,"  per- 
sisted Margaret.  * 

"  Nothing  that  won't  cure  itself,"  said  Irene, 
trying  to  speak  cheerfully.  "  I'll  go  up  to  my 
room  for  a  little  while." 

And  she  turned  away  from  her  kind-hearted  do- 
mestic. On  entering  her  chamber  Irene  locked  the 
door  in  order  to  be  safe  from  intrusion,  for  she 
knew  that  Margaret  would  not  let  half  an  hour 
pa«s  without  coming  up  to  ask  How  she  was.  Sit- 
ting down  by  the  window,  she  looked  out  upon  the 
river,  along  whose  smooth  surface  had  passed  the 
vessel  in  which,  a  little  while  before,  she  met  the 
man  once  called  by  the  name  of  husband — met 
him  and  looked  into  his  face  for  the  first  time  in 
ten  long  years !  The  meeting  had  disturbed  her 
profoundly.  In  the  cabin  of  that  vessel  she  had 
Been  him  by  the  side  of  a  fair  young  girl  in  earn- 


264  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

est  conversation;  aud  she  had  watched  with  a 
strange,  fluttering  interest  the  play  of  his  features. 
What  was  he  saying  to  that  fair  young  girl  that 
she  listened  with  such  a  breathless,  waiting  air? 
Suddenly  he  turned  toward  her,  their  eyes  met  and 
were  spell-bound  for  moments.  What  did  she  read 
in  his  eyes  in  those  brief  moments?  What  did  he 
read  in  hers?  Both  questions  pressed  themselves 
upon  her  thoughts  as  she  retreated  among  the 
crowd  of  passengers,  and  then  hid  herself  from  the 
chance  of  another  meeting  until  the  boat  reached 
the  landing  at  Ivy  Cliff.  Why  did  she  pause  on 
the  shore,  and  turn  to  look  upon  the  crowded 
decks  ?  She  knew  not.  The  act  was  involuntary. 
Again  their  eyes  met — met  and  held  each  other 
until  the  receding  vessel  placed  dim  distance  be- 
tween them. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  Margaret's  hand  was 
on  the  door,  but  she  could  not  enter.  Irene  had 
not  moved  from  her  place  at  the  window  in  all 
that  time. 

"  Is  that  you,  Margaret  ?"  she  called,  starting 
from  her  abstraction. 

"  Do  you  want  anything,  Miss  Irene  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  Margaret." 

She  answered  in  as  cheerful  a  tone  as  she  could 
assume,  and  the  kind  old  waiting-woman  retired. 

From  that  time  every  one  noted  a  change  in 
Irene.  But  none  knew,  or  even  guessed,  its  cause 
or  meaning.  Not  even  to  her  friend,  Mrs.  Everet, 


THE  MINISTERING  ANGEL.  .265 

did  she  speak  of  her  meeting  with  Hartley  Emer- 
scm.  Her  face  did  not  light  up  as  before,  and  her 
eyes  seemed  always  as  if  looking  inward  or  gazing 
dreamily  upon  something  afar  off.  Yet  in  good 
deeds  she  failed  not.  If  her  own  heart  was  heavier, 
she  made  other  hearts  lighter  by  her  presence. 

And  still  the  years  went  on  in  their  steady  re- 
volutions— one,  two,  three,  four,  five  more  years, 
and  in  all  that  time  the  parted  ones  did  not  meet 
again. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BORN  FOR    EACH  OTHER. 

SAW  Mr.  Emerson  yesterday,"  said  Mrs. 
Everet.  She  was  sitting  with  Irene  in  her 
own  house  in  New  York. 

"  Did  you  ?"  Irene  spoke  evenly  and 
quietly,  but  did  not  turn  her  face  toward  Mrs. 
Everet. 

"  Yes.  I  saw  him  at  my  husband's  store.  Mr. 
Everet  has  engaged  him  to  conduct  an  important 
suit,  in  which  many  thousands  of  dollars  are  at 
stake." 

u  How  does  he  look  ?"  inquired  Irene,  without 
showing  any  feeling,  but  still  keeping  her  face 
turned  from  Mrs.  Everet. 

"  Well,  I  should  say,  though  rather  too  much 
frosted  for  a  man  of  his  years." 

"  Gray,  do  you  mean  ?"  Irene  manifested  some 
surprise. 

"  Yes ;  his  hair  and  beard  are  quite  sprinkled 
with  time's  white  snow-flakes." 

"  He  is  only  forty,"  remarked  Irene. 

"I  should  say  fifty,  judging  from  his  appear- 
ance." 

"  Only  forty."    And  a  faint  sigh  breathed  on  the 


BORN  FOR  EACH  OTHER.       267 

lips  of  Irene.  She  did  not  look  around  at  her 
friend,  but  sat  very  still,  with  her  face  turned 
partly  away.  Mrs.  Everet  looked  at  her  closely, 
to  read,  if  possible,  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 
But  the  countenance  of  Irene  was  too  much  hid- 
den. Her  attitude,  however,  indicated  iutentness 
of  thought,  though  not  disturbing  thought. 

"  Rose,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I  grow  less  at  peace 
with  myself  as  the  years  move  onward." 

"You  speak  from  some  passing  state  of  mind," 
suggested  Mrs.  Everet. 

"  No;  from  a  gradually  forming  permanent  state. 
Ten  years  ago  I  looked  back  upon  the  past  in  a 
stern,  self-sustaining,  martyr-spirit.  Five  years 
ago  all  things  wore  a  different  aspect.  I  began  to 
have  misgivings;  I  could  not  so  clearly  make  out 
my  case.  New  thoughts  on  the  subject — and  not 
very  welcome  ones — began  to  intrude.  I  was  self- 
convicted  of  wrong ;  yes,  Rose,  of  a  great  and  an  ir- 
reparable wrong.  I  shut  my  eyes ;  I  tried  to  look 
in  other  directions ;  but  the  truth,  once  seen,  could 
not  pass  from  the  range  of  mental  vision.  I  have 
never  told  you  that  I  saw  Mr.  Emerson  five  years 
ago.  The  effect  of  that  meeting  was  such  that  I 
could  not  speak  of  it,  even  to  you.  We  met  on 
one  of  the  river  steamboats — met  and  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes  for  just  a  moment.  It  may  only 
be- a  fancy  of  mine,  but  I  have  thought  sometimes 
that,  but  for  this  seemingly  accidental  meeting,  he 
would  have  married  again." 


268  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Everet, 

Irene  did  not  answer  for  some  moments.  Sh« 
hardly  dared  venture  to  put  what  she  had  seen  in 
words.  It  was  something  that  she  felt  more  like 
hiding  even  from  her  own  consciousness,  if  that 
were  possible.  But,  having  ventured  so  far,  she 
could  not  well  hold  back.  So  she  replied,  keeping 
her  voice  into  as  dead  a  level  as  it  was  possible  to 
assume : 

"  He  was  sitting  in  earnest  conversation  with  a 
young  lady,  and  from  the  expression  of  her  face, 
which  I  could  see,  the  subject  on  which  he  was 
speaking  was  evidently  one  in  \vhich  more  than 
her  thought  was  interested.  I  felt  at  the  time 
that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  new  life-ex  peri  men  t — 
was  about  venturing  upon  a  sea  on  which  he  had 
once  made  shipwreck.  Suddenly  he  turned  half 
around  and  looked  at  me  before  I  had  time  to 
withdraw  my  eyes — looked  at  me  with  a  strange, 
surprised,  startled  look.  In  another  moment  a 
form  came  between  us ;  when  it  passed  I  was  lost 
from  his  gaze  in  the  crowd  of  passengers.  I  have 
puzzled  myself  a  great  many  times  over  that  fact 
of  his  turning  his  eyes,  as  if  from  some  hidden 
impulse,  just  to  the  spot  where  I  was  sitting. 
There  are  no  accidents — as  I  have  often  heard  you 
say — in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  term ; 
therefore  this  was  no  accident." 

"  It  was  a  providence,"  said  .Rose. 

"  And  to  what  end  ?"  asked  Irene. 


BORN  FOR  EACH  OTHER.  269 

Mrs.  EverM;  shook  her  head 

"  I  will  not  even  presume  to  conjecture." 

Irene  sighed,  and  then  sat  lost  in  thought.  Re- 
covering herself,  she  said : 

"  Since  that  time  I  have  been  growing  less  and 
less  satisfied  with  that  brief,  troubled  portion  of  my 
life  which  closed  so  disastrously.  I  forgot  how 
much  the  happiness  of  another  was  involved.  A 
blind,  willful  girl,  struggling  in  imaginary  bonds, 
I  thought  only  of  myself,  and  madly  rent  apart 
the  ties  which  death  only  should  have  sundered. 
For  five  years,  Rose,  I  have  carried  in  my  heart 
the  expression  which  looked  out  upon  me  from  the 
eves  of  Mr.  Emerson  at  that  brief  meeting.  Its 
meaning  was  not  then,  nor  is  it  now,  clear.  I  have 
never  set  myself  to  the  work  of  interpretation,  and 
believe  the  task  would  be  fruitless.  But  whenever 
it  is  recalled  I  am  affected  with  a  tender  sadness. 
And  so  his  head  is  already  frosted,  Rose?" 

"Yes." 

"  Though  in  years  he  has  reached  only  manhood's 
ripened  state.  How  I  have  marred  his  life!  Bet- 
ter, far  better,  would  it  have  been  for  him  if 
I  had  been  the  bride  of  Death  on  my  wedding- 
day!" 

A  shadow  of  pain  darkened  her  face. 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Everet;  "it  is  better  for 
both  you  and  him  that  you  were  not  the  bride  of 
Death.  There  are  deeper  things  hidden  in  the 
events  of  life  than  our  reason  can  fathom.  W« 


270  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

die  when  it  is  best  for  ourselves  and  best  for  others 
that  we  should  die — never  before.  And  the  fact 
that  we  live  is  in  itself  conclusive  that  we  are  yet 
needed  in  the  world  by  all  who  can  be  affected  by 
our  mortal  existence." 

"  Gray  hairs  at  forty !"  This  seemed  to  haunt 
the  mind  of  Irene. 

"  It  may  be  constitutional/'  suggested  Mrs.  Ev- 
eret;  "some  heads  begin  to  whiten  at  thirty." 

"  Possibly." 

But  the  tone  expressed  no  conviction. 

"  How  was  his  face  ?"  asked  Irene. 

"  Grave  and  thoughtful.  At  least  so  it  appeared 
to  me." 

"  At  forty."     Jt  was  all  Irene  said. 

Mrs.  Everet  might  have  suggested  that  a  man 
of  his  legal  position  would  naturally  be  grave  and 
thoughtful,  but  she  did  not. 

"  It  struck  me,"  said  Mrs.  Everet,  "  as  a  true, 
pure,  manly  face.  It  was  intellectual  and  refined  ; 
delicate,  yet  firm  about  the  mouth  and  expansive 
in  the  upper  portions.  The  hair  curled  softly  away 
from  his  white  temples  and  forehead." 

"  Worthy  of  a  better  fate !"  sighed  Irene.  "  And 
it  is  I  who  have  marred  his  whole  life !  How  blind 
is  selfish  passion  !  Ah,  my  friend,  the  years  do  not 
bring  peace  to  my  soul.  There  have  been  times 
when  to  know  that  he  had  sought  refuge  from  a 
lonely  life  in  marriage  would  have  been  a  relief  to 
ine.  Were  this  the  case,  the  thought  of  his  isola- 


BORN  FOR  EACH  OTHER.       271 

tion,  of  his  imperfect  life,  would  not  be  for  ever 
rebuking  me.  But  now,  while  no  less  severely 
rebufked  by  this  thought,  I  feel  glad  that  lie  has 
not  ventured  upon  an  act  no  clear  sanction  for 
which  is  found  in  the  Divine  law.  He  could  not, 
I  feel,  have  remained  so  true  and  pure  a  man  as  1 
trust  he  is  this  day.  God  help  him  to  hold  on, 
faithful  to  his  highest  intuitions,  even  unto  the 
end." 

Mrs,  Everet  looked  at  Irene  wonderingly  as  she 
S]K>ke,  She  had  never  before  thus  unveiled  her 
thoughts, 

"  He  struck  me,"  was  her  reply,  "  as  a  man  who 
had  passed  through  years  of  discipline  and  gained 
the  mastery  of  himself." 

"  I  trust  that  it  may  be  so,"  Irene  answered, 
rather  as  if  speaking  to  herself  than  to  another. 

"As  I  grow  older,"  she  added,  after  a  long 
pause,  now  looking  with  calm  eyes  upon  her 
friend,  "and  life-experiences  correct  my  judgment 
and  chasten  my  feelings,  I  see  all  things  in  a  new 
aspect.  I  understand  my  own  heart  letter — its 
needs,  capacities  and  yearnings ;  and  self-know- 
ledge is  the  key  by  which  we  unlock  the  mystery 
of  other  souls.  So  a  deeper  self-acquaintance  en- 
ables me  to  look  deeper  into  the  hearts  of  all  around 
me,  I  erred  in  marrying  Mr.  Emerson.  We  were 
both  too  hasty,  self-willed  and  tenacious  of  rights 
and  opinions  to  come  together  in  a  union  so  sacred 
and  so  intimate.  But,  after  I  had  become  his  wife, 


272  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

after  I  had  taken  upon  myself  such  holy  vow.*,  it 
was  my  duty  to  stand  fast.  I  could  not  abandon 
my  place  and  be  innocent  before  God  and  man. 
And  I  am  not  innocent,  Rose." 

The  face  of  Irene  was  strongly  agitated  for  some 
moments ;  but  she  recovered  herself  and  went  on  : 

"I  am  speaking  of  things  that  have  hitherto 
been  secrets  of  my  own  heart.  I  could  not  bring 
them  out  even  for  you  to  look  at,  my  dearest, 
truest,  best  of  friends.  Now  it  seems  as  if  I  could 
not  bear  the  weight  of  my  heavy  thoughts  alone ; 
as  if,  in  admitting  you  beyond  the  veil,  I  might 
find  strength  to  suffer,  if  not  ease  from  pain.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  living  our  lives  over  again  and 
correcting  their  great  errors.  The  past  is  an  irrevo- 
cable fact.  Ah,  if  conscience  would  sleep,  if  strug- 
gles for  a  better  life  would  make  atonement  for 
wrong — then,  as  our  years  progress,  we  might  lapse 
into  tranquil  states.  But  gradually  clearing  vision 
increases  the  magnitude  of  a  fault  like  mine,  for 
its  fatal  consequences  are  seen  in  broader  light. 
There  is  a  thought  which  has  haunted  me  for  a 
year  past  like  a  spectre.  It  comes  to  me  unbidden ; 
sometimes  to  disturb  the  quiet  of  my  lonely  even- 
ings, sometimes  in  the  silent  night-watches  to 
banish  sleep  from  my  pillow ;  sometimes  to  place 
silence  on  my  lips  as  I  sit  among  cherished  friends. 
I  never  imagined  that  I  would  put  this  thought  in 
words  for  any  mortal  ear ;  yet  it  is  coming  to  my 
lips  now,  and  I  feel  impelled  to  go  on.  You  be>- 


BORN  FOR  EACH  OTHER.       273 

lieve  that  there  are,  as  you  call  them,  '  conjugal 
partners/  or  men  and  women  born  for  each  other, 
who,  in  a  true  marriage  of  souls,  shall  become  eter- 
nally one.  They  do  not  always  meet  in  this  life ; 
nay,  for  the  sake  of  that  discipline  which  leads  to 
purification,  may  form  other  and  uncongenial  ties 
in  the  world,  and  live  unhappily ;  but  in  heaven 
they  will  draw  together  by  a  divinely-implanted 
attraction,  and  be  there  united  for  ever.  I  have 
felt  that  something  like  this  must  be  true;  that 
every  soul  must  have  its  counterpart.  The  thought 
which  has  so  haunted  me  is,  that  Hartley  Emerson 
and  unhappy  I  were  born  for  each  other." 

She  paused  and  looked  with  a  half-startled  air 
upon  Mrs.  Everet  to  mark  the  effect  of  this  reve- 
lation. But  Rose  made  no  response  and  showed 
no  surprise,  however  she  might  have  been  affected 
by  the  singular  admission  of  her  friend. 

"  It  has  been  all  in  vain,"  continued  Irene,  "that 
I  have  pushed  the  thought  aside — called  it  absurd, 
insane,  impossible — back  it  would  come  and  take 
its  old  place.  And,  stranger  still,  out  of  facts  that 
I  educed  to  prove  its  fallacy  would  come  corrobo- 
rative suggestions.  I  think  it  is  well  for  my  peace 
of  mind  that  I  have  not  been  in  the  way  of  hear- 
ing about  him  or  of  seeing  him.  Since  we  parted 
it  has  been  as  if  a  dark  curtain  had  fallen  between 
us ;  and,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  that  curtain  has 
been  lifted  up  but  once  or  twice,  and  then  only  for 
a  moment  of  time.  So  all  my  thoughts  of  him  are 
13 


274  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

joined  to  the  past.  Away  back  in  that  sweet  lima, 
when  the  heart  of  girlhood  first  thrills  with  the 
passion  of  love  are  some  memories  that  haunt  my 
soul  like  dreams  from  Elysium.  He  was,  in  my 
eyes,  the  impersonation  of  all  that  was  lovely  and 
excellent ;  his  presence  made  my  sense  of  happiness 
complete ;  his  voice  touched  my  ears  as  the  blend- 
ing of  all  rich  harmonies.  But  there  fell  upon  him 
a  shadow ;  there  came  hard  discords  in  the  masic 
which  had  entranced  my  soul;  the  fine  gold  was 
dimmed.  Then  came  that  period  of  mad  strife,  of 
blind  antagonism,  in  which  we  hurt  each  other  bj 
rough  contact.  Finally,  we  were  driven  far  asun- 
der, and,  instead  of  revolving  together  around  a 
common  centre,  each  has  moved  in  a  separate  orbit. 
For  years  that  dark  period  of  pain  has  held  the 
former  period  of  brightness  in  eclipse ;  but  of  late 
gleams  from  that  better  time  have  made  their  way 
down  to  the  present.  Gradually  the  shadows  are 
giving  away.  The  first  state  is  coming  to  be  felt 
more  and  more  as  the  true  state — as  that  in  best 
agreement  with  what  we  are  in  relation  to  each 
other.  It  was  the  evil  in  us  that  met  in  such  fatal 
antagonism — not  the  good ;  it  was  something  that 
we  must  put  off  if  we  would  rise  from  natural  and 
selfish  life  into  spiritual  and  heavenly  life.  It  was 
our  selfishness  and  passion  that  drove  us  asunder. 
Thus  it  is,  dear  Rose,  that  my  thoughts  have  been 
wandering  about  in  the  maze  of  life  that  entangle* 
•ae.  In  my  isolation  I  have  time  enough  for  men- 


£ORN  FOR  EACH  OTHER.  275 

tal  inversion — for  self-exploration — for  idle  fancies, 
if  you  will.  And  so  I  have  lifted  the  veil  for  you ; 
uncovered  my  inner  life;  taken  you  into  the  sanc- 
tuary over  whose  threshold  no  foot  but  my  own 
had  ever  passed." 

There  was  too  much  in  all  this  for  Mrs.  Everet 
to  venture  upon  any  reply  that  involved  suggestion 
or  advice.  It  was  from  a  desire  tc  look  deeper  into 
the  heart  of  her  friend  that  she  had  spoken  of  her 
meeting  with  Mr.  Emerson.  The  glance  she  ob- 
tained revealed  far  more  than  her  imagination  had 
ever  reached. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

LOVE  NEVER    DIES. 

fHE  brief  meeting  with  Mrs.  Everet  had  stirred 
the  memory  of  old  times  in  the  heart  of  Mr. 
Emerson.  With  a  vividness  unknown  foi 
years,  Ivy  Cliff  and  the  sweetness  of  many 
lite-passages  there  came  back  to  him,  and  set  heart- 
pulses  that  he  had  deemed  stilled  for  ever  beating 
iii  tumultuous  waves.  When  the  business  of  the 
day  was  over  he  sat  down  in  the  silence  of  his 
chamber  and  turned  his  eyes  inward.  He  pushed 
aside  intervening  year  after  year,  until  the  long-ago 
past  was,  to  his  consciousness,  almost  as  real  as  the 
living  present.  What  he  saw  moved  him  deeply. 
He  grew  restless,  then  showed  disturbance  of  man- 
ner. There  was  an  effort  to  turn  away  from  the 
haunting  fascination  of  this  long-buried,  but  now 
exhumed  period ;  but  the  dust  and  scoria  were 
removed,  and  it  lifted,  like  another  Pompeii,  its 
desolate  walls  and  silent  chambers  in  the  clear 
noon-rays  of  the  present. 

After  a  long  but  fruitless  effort  to  bury  the  past 
again,  to  let  the  years  close  over  it  as  the  waves 
close  over  a  treasure-laden  ship,  Mr.  Emerson  gave 
himself  up  to  its  thronging  memories  and  let  them 
bear  him  whither  they  would. 

27« 


LOVE  NEVER  DIES.  277 

In  this  state  of  mind  he  unlocked  one  of  the 
•lowers  in  a  secretary  and  took  therefrom  a  small 
box  or  casket.  Placing  this  on  a  table,  he  sat  down 
and  looked  at  it  for  some  minutes,  as  if  in  doubt 
whether  it  were  best  for  him  to  go  further  in  this 
direction.  Whether  satisfied  or  not,  he  presently 
laid  his  fingers  upon  the  lid  of  the  casket  and 
slowly  opened  it.  It  contained  only  a  morocco 
case.  He  touched  this  as  if  it  were  something 
precious  and  sacred.  For  some  moments  after  it 
was  removed  he  sat  holding  it  in  his  hand  and 
looking  at  the  dark,  blank  surface,  as  a  long- 
expected  letter  is  sometimes  held  before  the  seal  is 
broken  and  the  contents  devoured  with  impatient 
eagerness.  At  last  his  finger  pressed  the  spring 
on  which  it  had  been  resting,  and  he  looked  upon 
a  young,  sweet  face,  whose  eyes  gazed  back  into  his 
with  a  living  tenderness.  In  a  little  while  his 
hand  so  trembled,  and  his  eyes  grew  so  dim,  that 
the  face  was  veiled  from  his  sight.  Closing  the 
miniature,  but  still  retaining  it  in  his  hand,  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  remained  motionless, 
with  shut  eyes,  for  a  long  time ;  then  he  looked  at 
the  fair  young  face  again,  conning  over  every  fea- 
ture and  expression,  until  sad  memories  came  in 
and  veiled  it  again  with  tears. 

"  Folly  !  weakness  !"  he  said  at  last,  pushing  the 
picture  from  him  and  making  a  feeble  effort  to  get 
back  his  manly  self-possession.  "  The  past  is  gone 
for  ever.  The  page  on  which  its  sad  history  is 


278  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

written  was  closed  long  ago,  and  the  book  is  sealed. 
Why  unclasp  the  volume  and  search  for  that  dark 
record  again  ?" 

Yet,  even  as  he  said  this,  his  hand  reached  out 
for  the  miniature,  and  his  eyes  were  on  it  ere  the 
closing  words  had  parted  from  his  lips. 

"  Poor  Irene  I"  he  murmured,  as  he  gazed  on  her 
pictured  face.  "You  had  a  pure,  tender,  loving 
heart — "  then,  suddenly  shutting  the  miniature, 
with  a  sharp  click  of  the  spring,  he  tossed  it  from 
him  upon  the  table  and  said, 

"This  is  folly!  folly!  folly!"  and,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  he  shut  his  eyes  and  sat  for  a  long 
time  with  his  brows  sternly  knitted  together  and 
his  lips  tightly  compressed.  Rising,  at  length,  he 
restored  the  miniature  to  its  casket,  and  the  casket 
to  its  place  in  the  drawer.  A  servant  came  to  the 
door  at  this  moment,  bringing  the  compliments  of 
a  lady  friend,  who  asked  him,  if  not  engaged,  to 
favor  her  with  his  company  on  that  evening,  as  she 
had  a  visitor,  just  arrived,  to  whom  she  wished  to 
introduce  him.  He  liked  the  lady,  who  was  the 
wife  of  a  legal  friend,  very  well ;  but  he  was  not 
always  so  well  pleased  with  her  lady  friends,  of 
whom  she  had  a  large  circle.  The  fact  was,  she 
considered  him  too  fine  a  man  to  go  through  life 
companionless,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  use  every 
art  in  her  power  to  draw  him  into  an  entangling 
alliance.  He  saw  this,  and  was  often  more  amused 
than  annoyed  by  her  finesse. 


LOVE  NEVER  DIES.  279 

It  was  on  his  lips  to  send  word  that  he  was  en- 
gaged, but  a  regard  for  truth  would  not  let  him 
make  this  excuse ;  so,  after  a  little  hesitation  and 
debate,  he  answered  that  he  would  present  himself 
during  the  evening.  The  lady's  visitor  was  a 
widow  of  about  thirty  years  of  age — rich,  edu- 
cated, accomplished  and  personally  attractive.  She 
was  from  Boston,  and  connected  with  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  families  in  Massachusetts,  whose 
line  of  ancestry  ran  back  among  the  nobles  of  Eng- 
land. In  conversation  this  lady  showed  herself  to 
be  rarely  gifted,  and  there  was  a  charm  about  her 
manners  that  was  irresistible.  Mr.  Emerson,  who 
had  been  steadily  during  the  past  five  years  grow- 
ing less  and  less  attracted  by  the  fine  women  he 
met  in  society,  found  himself  unusually  interested 
in  Mrs.  Eager. 

"  I  knew  you  would  like  her,"  said  his  lady 
friend,  as  Mr.  Emerson  was  about  retiring  at 
eleven  o'clock. 

"  You  take  your  conclusion  for  granted,"  he  an- 
swered, smiling.  "  Did  I  say  that  I  liked  her  ?" 

"  We  ladies  have  eyes,"  was  the  laughing  rejoin- 
der. "Of  course  you  like  her.  She's  going  to 
spend  three  or  four  days  with  me.  You'll  drop  in 
to-morrow  evening.  Now  don't  pretend  that  you 
have  an  engagement.  Come ;  I  want  you  to  know 
her  better.  I  think  her  charming," 

Mr,  Emerson  did  not  promise  positively,  but 
said  that  he  might  look  in  during  the  evening. 


280  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

For  a  new  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Eager  had  attracted 
him  strongly;  and  his  thoughtful  friend  was  not 
disappointed  in  her  expectation  of  seeing  him  at 
her  house  on  the  succeeding  night.  Mrs.  Eager,  tc 
whom  the  lady  she  was  visiting  had  spoken  of  Mr. 
Emerson  in  terms  of  almost  extravagant  eulogy, 
was  exceedingly  well  pleased  with  him,  and  much 
gratified  at  meeting  him  again.  A  second  inter- 
view gave  both  an  opportunity  for  closer  observa- 
tion, and  when  they  parted  it  was  with  pleasant 
thoughts  of  each  other  lingering  in  their  minds. 
During  the  time  that  Mrs.  Eager  remained  in  New 
York,  which  was  prolonged  for  a  week  beyond  the 
period  originally  fixed,  Mr.  Emerson  saw  her  al- 
most every  day,  and  became  her  voluntary  escort  in 
visiting  points  of  local  interest.  The  more  he  saw 
of  her  the  more  he  was  charmed  with  her  charac- 
ter. She  seemed  in  his  eyes  the  most  attractive 
woman  he  had  ever  met.  Still,  there  was  some- 
thing about  her  that  did  not  wholly  satisfy  him/ 
though  what  it  was  did  not  come  into  perception. 

Five  years  had  passed  since  any  serious  thought 
of  marriage  had  troubled  the  mind  of  Mr.  Emer- 
son. After  his  meeting  with  Irene  he  had  felt  that 
another  union  in  this  world  was  not  for  him — that 
he  had  no  right  to  exchange  vows  of  eternal  fidelity 
with  any  other  woman.  She  had  remained  unwed- 
ded,  and  would  so  remain,  he  felt,  to  the  end  of  her 
life.  The  legal  contract  between  them  was  dis- 
solved ;  but,  since  h's  brief  talk  with  the  stranger 


LOVE  NEVER  DIES.  281 

>n  the  boat,  he  had  not  felt  so  clear  as  to  the  higher 
law  obligations  which  were  upon  them.  And  so 
he  had  settled  it  in  his  mind  to  bear  life's  burdens 
alone. 

But  Mrs.  Eager  had  crossed  his  way,  and  filled, 
in  many  respects,  his  ideal  of  a  woman.  There 
was  a  charm  about  her  that  won  him  against  all 
resistance. 

"  Don't  let  this  opportunity  pass,"  said  his  inter- 
ested lady  friend,  as  the  day  of  Mrs.  Eager's  de- 
parture drew  nigh.  "She  is  a  woman  in  a  thousand, 
and  will  make  one  of  the  best  of  wives.  Think, 
too,  of  her  social  position,  her  wealth  and  her  large 
cultivation.  An  opportunity  like  this  is  never  pre- 
sented more  than  once  in  a  lifetime." 

"  You  speak,"  replied  Mr.  Emerson,  "  as  if  I 
had  only  to  say  the  word  and  this  fair  prize  would 
drop  into  my  arms." 

"She  will  have  to  be  wooed  if  she  is  won. 
Were  this  not  the  case  she  would  not  be  worth 
having,"  said  the  lady.  "  But  my  word  for  it,  if 
you  turn  wooer  the  winning  will  not  be  hard.  If 
I  have  not  erred  in  my  observation,  you  are  about 
mutually  interested.  There  now,  my  cautious  sir, 
if  you  do  not  get  handsomely  provided  for,  it  will 
be  no  fault  of  mine." 

In  two  days  from  this  time  Mrs.  Eager  was  to 
return  to  Boston. 

"  You  must  take  her  to  see  those  new  paintings 
at  the  rooms  of  the  Society  Library  to-morrow.  I 


282  AFTER    THE  STORM. 

heard  her  express  a  desire  to  examine  them  before 
returning  to  Boston.  Connoisseurs  are  in  ecstasies 
over  three  or  four  of  the  pictures,  and,  as  Mrs. 
Eager  is  something  of  an  enthusiast  in  matters  of 
art,  your  favor  in  this  will  give  her  no  light 
pleasure." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  attend  her,"  replied 
Mr.  Emerson.  "  Give  her  my  compliments,  and 
say  that,  if  agreeable  to  herself,  I  will  call  for  her 
at  twelve  to-morrow." 

"  No  verbal  compliments  and  messages,"  replied 
the  lady;  "that  isn't  just  the  way." 

"  How  then  ?  Must  I  call  upon  her  and  deliver 
my  message?  That  might  not  be  convenient  to 
me  nor  agreeable  to  her." 

"  Oh !"  ejaculated  the  lady,  with  affected  impa- 
tience, "  you  men  are  so  stupid  at  times !  You  know 
how  to  write  ?" 

"  Ah  !  yes,  I  comprehend  you  now." 

"  Very  well.  Send  your  compliments  and  your 
message  in  a  note ;  and  let  it  be  daintily  worded ; 
not  in  heavy  phrases,  like  a  legal  document." 

"A  very  princess  in  feminine  diplomacy!"  said 
Mr.  Emerson  to  himself,  as  he  turned  from  the 
lady  and  took  his  way  homeward.  "  So  I  must 
pen  a  note." 

Now  this  proved  a  more  difficult  matter  than  he 
had  at  first  thought.  He  sat  down  to  the  task  im- 
mediately on  returning  to  his  room.  On  a  small 
sheet  of  tinted  note-paper  he  wrote  a  few  words, 


LOVE  NEVER  DIES.  283 

but  they  did  not  please  him,  and  the  page  was 
thrown  into  the  fire.  He  tried  again,  but  with  no 
better  success — again  and  again ;  but  still,  as  he 
looked  at  the  brief  sentences,  they  seemed  to  ex- 
press too  much  or  too  little.  Unable  to  pen  the 
note  to  his  satisfaction,  he  pushed,  at  last,  his 
writing  materials  aside,  saying, 

"  My  head  will  be  clearer  and  cooler  in  the 
morning." 

It  was  drawing  on  to  midnight,  and  Mr.  Emer- 
son had  not  yet  retired.  His  thoughts  were  too 
busy  for  sleep.  Many  things  were  crowding  into 
his  mind — questions,  doubts,  misgivings — scenes 
from  the  past  and  imaginations  of  the  future. 
And  amid  them  all  came  in  now  and  then,  just  for 
a  moment,  as  he  had  seen  it  five  years  before,  the 
pate,  still  face  of  Irene. 

\V  earied  in  the  conflict,  tired  nature  at  last  gave 
woy,  and  Mr.  Emerson  fell  asleep  in  his  chair. 
Two  hours  of  deep  slumber  tranquilized  his  spirit. 
He  awoke  from  this,  put  off  his  clothing  and  laid 
his  head  on  his  pillow.  It  was  late  in  the  morn- 
ing when  he  arose.  He  had  no  difficulty  now  in 
penning  a  note  to  Mrs.  Eager.  It  was  the  work 
of  a  moment,  and  satisfactory  to  him  in  the  first 
effort. 

At  twelve  he  called  with  a  carriage  for  the  lady, 
whom  he  found  all  ready  to  accompany  him,  and 
in  the  best  possible  state  of  mind.  Her  smile,  as 
he  presented  himself,  was  absolutely  fascinating' 


284  AFTER  THE  STOKM. 

and  her  voice  seemed  like  a  freshly-tuned  instru- 
ment, every  tone  was  so  rich  in  musical  vibration, 
and  all  the  tones  came  chorded  to  his  ear. 

There  were  not  many  visitors  at  the  exhibition 
rooms — a  score,  perhaps — but  they  were  art-lovers, 
gazing  in  rapt  attention  or  talking  in  hushed  whis- 
pers. They  moved  about  noiselessly  here  and 
there,  seeming  scarcely  conscious  that  others  were 
present.  Gradually  the  number  increased,  until 
within  an  hour  after  they  entered  it  was  more  than 
doubled.  Still,  the  presence  of  art  subdued  all 
into  silence  or  subdued  utterances. 

Emerson  was  charmed  with  his  companion's  ap- 
preciative admiration  of  many  pictures.  She  was 
familiar  with  art-terms  and  special  points  of  in- 
terest, and  pointed  out  beauties  and  harmonies  that 
to  him  were  dead  letters  without  an  interpreter. 
They  came,  at  last,  to  a  small  but  wonderfully 
effective  picture,  which  contained  a  single  figure, 
that  of  a  man  sitting  by  a  table  in  a  room  which 
presented  the  appearance  of  a  library.  Pie  held  a 
letter  in  his  hand — an  old  letter;  the  artist  had 
made  this  plain — but  was  not  reading.  He  had 
been  reading ;  but  the  words,  proving  conjurors, 
had  summoned  the  dead  past  before  him,  and  he 
was  now  looking  far  away,  with  sad,  dreamy  eyes, 
into  the  long  ago.  A  casket  stood  open.  The 
letter  had  evidently  been  taken  from  this  reposi- 
tory. There  was  a  miniature;  a  bracelet  of  auburn 
hair ;  a  ring  and  a  chain  of  gold  lying  on  the  ta- 


LOVE  yEVER  DIES.  285 

ble.  Mr.  Emerson  turned  to  the  catalogue  an<? 
read, 

"  WITH  THE  BURIED  PAST." 

And  below  this  title  the  brief  sentiment — 

"  Love  never  dies." 

A  deep,  involuntary  sigh  came  through  his  lips 
and  stirred  the  pulseless  air  around  him.  Then, 
like  an  echo,  there  came  to  his  ears  an  answering 
sigh,  and,  turning,  he  looked  into  the  face  of  Irene! 
She  had  entered  the  rooms  a  little  while  before, 
and  in  passing  from  picture  to  picture  had  reached 
this  one  a  few  moments  after  Mr.  Emerson.  She 
had  not  observed  him,  and  was  just  beginning  to 
feel  its  meaning,  when  the  sigh  that  attested  its 
power  over  him  reached  her  ears  and  awakened  an 
answering  sigh.  For  several  moments  their  eyes 
were  fixed  in  a  gaze  which  neither  had  power  to 
withdraw.  The  face  of  Irene  had  grown  thinner, 
paler  and  more  shadowy — if  we  may  use  that  term 
to  express  something  not  of  the  earth,  earthy — than 
it  was  when  he  looked  upon  it  five  years  before. 
But  her  eyes  were  darker  in  contrast  with  her 
colorless  face,  and  had  a  deeper  tone  of  feeling. 

They  did  not  speak  nor  pass  a  sign  of  recog- 
nition. But  the  instant  their  eyes  withdrew  from 
each  other  Irene  turned  from  the  picture  and  left 
the  rooms. 

When  Mr.  Emerson  looked  back  into  the  face 
of  his  companion,  its  charm  was  gone.  Beside 
hat  of  the  fading  countenance,  so  still  and  nun- 


286  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

like,  upon  which  he  had  gazed  a  moment  before, 
it  looked  coarse  and  worldly.  When  she  spoke, 
her  tones  no  longer  came  in  chords  of  music  to  his 
ears,  but  jarred  upon  his  feelings.  He  grew 
silent,  cold,  abstracted.  The  lady  noted  the  change, 
and  tried  to  rally  him ;  but  her  efforts  were  vain. 
He  moved  by  her  side  like  an  automaton,  and 
listened  to  her  comments  on  the  pictures  they 
paused  to  examine  in  such  evident  absent-minded- 
ness that  she  became  annoyed,  and  proposed  re- 
turning home.  Mr.  Emerson  made  no  objection, 
and- they  left  the  quiet  picture-gallery  for  the  tur- 
bulence of  Broadway.  The  ride  home  was  a  silent 
one,  and  they  separated  in  mutual  embarrassment, 
Mr.  Emerson  going  back  to  his  rooms  instead  of 
to  his  office,  and  sitting  down  in  loneliness  there, 
with  a  shuddering  sense  of  thankfulness  at  bis 
heart  for  the  danger  he  had  just  escaped. 

"  What  a  blind  spell  was  on  me  !"  he  said,  as  he 
gazed  away  down  into  his  soul — far,  far  deeper  than 
any  tone  or  look  from  Mrs.  Eager  had  penetrated — • 
and  saw  needs,  states  and  yearnings  there  which 
must  be  filled  or  there  could  be  no  completeness 
of  life.  And  now  the  still,  pale  face  of  Irene 
stood  out  distinctly ;  and  her  deep,  weird,  yearn- 
ing eyes  looked  into  his  with  a  fixe£  intent- 
ness  that  stirred  his  heart  to  its  profoundest 
depths. 

Mr.  Emerson  was  absent  from  his  office  all  that 
day.  Bat  on  the  next  morning  he  was  at  his  post, 


LOVE  NEVER  DIES.  287 

and  it  would  have  taken  a  close  observer  to  have 
detected  any  change  in  his  usually  quiet  face.  But 
there  was  a  change  in  the  man — a  great  change. 
He  had  gone  down  deeper  into  his  heart  than  he 
had  ever  gone  before,  and  understood  himself  bet- 
ter. There  was  little  danger  of  his  ever  being 
tempted  again  in  this  direction. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

EFFECTS   OF  THE  STORM. 

*j|f  T  was  more  than  a  week  before  Mr.  Emerson 

II  called  again  upon  the  lady  friend  who  had 
J|  shown  so  strong  a  desire  to  procure  him  a 
wife.  He  expected  her  to  introduce  the  name 
of  Mrs.  Eager,  and  came  prepared  to  talk  in  a  way 
that  would  for  ever  close  the  subject  of  marriage 
between  them.  The  lady  expressed  surprise  at  not 
having  seen  him  for  so  long  a  time,  and  then  in 
troduced  the  subject  nearest  her  thought. 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  you  and  Mrs 
Eager  ?"  she  asked,  her  face  growing  serious. 

Mr.  Emerson  shook  his  head,  and  said,  "No- 
thing," with  not  a  shadow  of  concern  in  his  voice. 

"Nothing?  Think  again.  I  could  hardly  have 
been  deceived." 

"  Why  do  you  ask?  Did  the  lady  charge  any- 
thing ungallant  against  me?" 

Mr.  Emerson  was  unmoved. 

"  Oh  no,  no !  She  scarcely  mentioned  your 
name  after  her  return  from  viewing  the  pictures. 
But  she  was  not  in  so  bright  a  humor  as  when  she 
went  out,  and  was  dull  up  to  the  hour  of  her  de- 
parture for  Boston.  I'm  afraid  you  offended  her 

288 


EFFECTS  OF  THE  STORM.  289 

in  some  way — unconsciously  on  your  part,  of 
course." 

"  Xo,  I  think  not,"  said  Mr.  Emerson.  "  She 
would  be  sensitive  in  the  extreme  if  offended  by 
any  word  or  act  of  mine." 

u  Well,  letting  that  ail  pass,  Mr.  Emerson, 
•what  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Eager  ?" 

"  That  she  is  an  attractive  and  highly  accom- 
plished woman." 

"  And  the  one  who  reaches  your  ideal  of  a  wife?" 

"  No,  ma'am,"  was  the  unhesitating  answer,  and 
made  in  so  emphatic  a  tone  that  there  was  no  mis- 
taking his  sincerity.  There  was  a  change  in  his 
countenance  and  manner.  He  looked  unusually 
serious. 

The  lady  tried  to  rally  him,  but  he  had  come 
in  too  sober  a  state  of  mind  for  pleasant  trifling  on 
this  subject,  of  all  others. 

"  My  kind,  good  friend,"  he  said,  "  I  owe  you 
many  thanks  for  the  interest  you  have  taken  in 
me,  and  for  your  efforts  to  get  me  a  companion. 
But  I  do  not  intend  to  marry." 

"  So  you  have  said — " 

"  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you."  Mr.  Emer- 
son checked  the  light  speech  that  was  on  her  tongue. 
"  I  am  going  to  say  to  you  some  things  that  have 
never  passed  my  lips  before.  You  will  understand 
me ;  this  I  know,  or  I  would  not  let  a  sentence 
tome  into  utterance.  And  I  know  more,  that  you 
will  not  make  light  of  what  to  me  is  sacred." 


290  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

The  lady  was  sobered  in  a  moment. 

"  To  make  light  of  what  to  you  is  sacred  would 
be  impossible,"  she  replied. 

"  I  believe  it,  and  therefore  I  am  going  to  speak 
of  things  that  are  to  me  the  saddest  of  my  life, 
and  yet  are  coming  to  involve  the  holiest  senti- 
ments. I  have  more  than  one  reason  for  desiring 
now  to  let  another  look  below7  the  quiet  surface ; 
and  I  will  lift  the  veil  for  your  eyes  alone.  You 
know  that  I  was  married  nearly  twenty  years  ago, 
and  that  my  wife  separated  herself  from  me  in  less 
than  three  years  after  our  union ;  and  you  also 
know  that  the  separation  was  made  permanent  by 
a  divorce.  This  is  all  that  you  or  any  other  one 
knows,  so  far  as  I  have  made  communication  on  the 
subject ;  and  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  she  who 
was  my  wife  has  been  as  reserved  in  the  matter  as 
myself. 

"  The  simple  facts  in  the  case  are  these :  We 
were  both  young  and  undisciplined,  both  quick- 
tempered, self-willed,  and  very  much  inclined  to 
have  things  our  own  way.  She  was  an  only  child, 
and  so  was  I.  Each  had  been  spoiled  by  long  self- 
indulgence.  So,  when  we  came  together  in  mar- 
riage, the  action  of  our  lives,  instead  of  taking  a 
common  pulsation,  was  inharmonious.  For  a  few 
years  we  strove  together  blindly  in  our  bonds,  and 
then  broke  madly  asunder.  J  think  we  were  about 
equally  in  fault;  but  if  there  was  a  preponder- 
ance of  blame,  it  rested  on  my  side,  for,  as  a  man, 


EFFECTS  OF  THE  STORM.  291 

I  should  have  kept  a  cooler  head  and  shown 
greater  forbearance.  But  the  time  for  blame  has 
long  si  vice  passed.  It  is  with  the  stern,  irrevocable 
facts  thi-t  we  are  dealing  now. 

"  So  bitter  had  been  our  experience,  and  so  pain- 
ful the  fUiock  of  separation,  that  I  think  a  great 
many  y«ars  must  have  passed  before  repentance 
came  into  either  heart — before  a  feeling  of  regret 
that  we  bad  not  held  fast  to  our  marriage  vows 
was  born.  How  it  was  with  me  you  may  infer 
from  the  fact  that,  after  the  lapse  of  two  years,  I 
deliberately  asked  for  and  obtained  a  divorce  on 
the  ground  of  desertion^  But  doubt  as  to  the 
propriety  o"f  this  step  stirred  uneasily  in  my  mind 
for  the  first  time  when  I  held  the  decree  in  my 
hand ;  and  I  have  never  felt  wholly  satisfied  with 
myself  since.  There  should  be  something  deeper 
than  incompatibility  of  temper  to  warrant  a  di- 
vorce. The  parties  should  correct  what  is  wrong 
in  themselves,  and  thus  come  into  harmony.  There 
is  no  excuse  for  pride,  passion  and  self-will.  The 
law  of  God  does  not  make  these  justifiable  causes 
of  divorce,  and  neither  should  the  law  of  man.  A 
purer  woman  than  my  wife  never  lived ;  and  she 
had  elements  of  character  that  promised  a  rare  de- 
velopment. I  was  proud  of  her.  Ah,  if  I  had 
been  wiser  and  more  patient !  If  I  had  endeavored 
to  lead,  instead  of  assuming  the  manly  prerogative  J 
But  I  was  young,  and  blind,  and  willful ! 

"  Fifteen  years    have  passed  since  the  day  we 


292  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

parted,  and  each  has  remained  single.  If  we  had 
not  separated,  we  rnigl  t  now  be  living  in  a  true 
heart-union ;  for  I  believe,  strange  as  it  may 
sound  to  you,  that  we  were  made  for  each  other — 
that,  when  the  false  and  evil  of  our  lives  are  put 
off,  the  elements  of  conjunction  will  appear.  AVe 
have  made  for  ourselves  of  this  world  a  dreary 
waste,  when,  if  we  had  overcome  the  evil  of  our 
hearts,  our  paths  would  have  been  through  green 
and  fragrant  places.  It  may  be  happier  for  us  in 
the  next ;  and  it  will  be.  I  am  a  better  man,  I 
think,  for  the  discipline  through  which  I  have 
passed,  and  she  is  a  better  woman." 

Mr.  Emerson  paused. 

"She?     Have  you  seen  her?"  the  lady  asked. 

"  Twice  since  we  parted,  and  then  only  for  a 
moment.  Suddenly  each  time  we  met,  and  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  single  instant;  then,  as 
if  a  curtain  had  dropped  suddenly  between  us,  we 
were  separated.  But  the  impression  of  her  face 
remained  as  vivid  and  permanent  as  a  sun-picture. 
She  lives,  for  most  of  her  time,  secluded  at  Ivy 
Cliff,  her  home  on  the  Hudson ;  and  her  life  is 
passed  there,  I  hear,  in  doing  good.  And,  if  good 
deeds,  from  right  ends,  write  their  history  on  the 
human  face,  then  her  countenance  bears  the  record 
of  tenderest  charities.  It  was  pale  when  I  last 
saw  it — pale,  but  spiritual — I  can  use  no  other 
word ;  and  I  felt  a  sudden  pain  at  the  thought  that 
she  was  growing  into  a  life  so  pure  and  heavenly 


EFFECTS  OF  THE  STORM.  293 

that  I  must  stand  afar  off  as  unworthy.  It  had 
sometimes  come  into  my  thought  that  we  were 
approaching  each  other,  as  both  put  off,  more  and 
more,  the  evil  which  had  driven  us  apart  and  held 
us  so  long  asunder.  But  this  illusion  our  last  brief 
meeting  dispelled.  She  has  passed  me  on  the  road 
of  self-discipline  and  self-abnegation,  and  is  jour- 
neying far  ahead.  And  now  I  can  but  follow 
through  life  at  a  distance. 

"  So  much,  and  no  more,  my  friend.  I  drop  the 
veil  over  my  heart.  You  will  understand  me  better 
hereafter.  I  shall  not  marry.  That  legal  divorce 
is  invalid.  I  could  not  perjure  my  soul  by  vows 
of  fidelity  toward  another.  Patiently  and  earnestly 
will  I  do  my  allotted  work  here.  My  better  hopes 
lie  all  in  the  heavenly  future. 

"  And  now,  my  friend,  we  will  understand  each 
other  better.  You  have  looked  deeper  into  my 
thoughts  and  experiences  than  any  other  human 
being.  Let  the  revelation  be  sacred  to  yourself. 
The  knowledge  you  possess  may  enable  you  to  do 
me  justice  sometimes,  and  sometimes  to  save  me 
from  an  intrusion  of  themes  that  cannot  but  touch 
me  unpleasantly.  There  was  a  charm  about  Mrs. 
Eager  that,  striking  me  suddenly,  for  a  little  while 
bewildered  my  fancy.  She  is  a  woman  of  rare  en- 
dowments, and  I  do  not  regret  the  introduction  and 
passing  influence  she  exercised  over  me.  It  was  a 
dream  from  which  the  awakening  was  certain. 
Suddenly  the  illusion  vanished,  as  I  saw  her  b«- 


294  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

side  my  lost  Irene.  The  one  was  of  the  earth, 
earthy — the  other  of  heaven,  heavenly;  and  as  I 
looked  back  into  her  brilliant  face,  radiant  with 
thought  and  feeling,  I  felt  a  low,  creeping  shudder, 
as  if  just  freed  from  the  spell  of  a  siren.  I  cannot 
be  enthralled  again,  even  for  a  moment." 

Back  again  into  his  world's  work  Mr.  Emerson 
returned  after  this  brief,  exciting  episode,  and 
found  in  its  performance  from  high  and  honorable 
motives  that  calmly  sustaining  power  which  comet 
only  as  (he  reward  of  duties  faithfully  done. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

AFTER    THE  STORM, 

ihe  storm!  How  long  the  treasure 
remain,  d  buried  in  deep  waters  !  How  long 
the  eaith  showed  unsightly  furrows  and  bar- 
ren places !  For  nearly  twenty  years  there 
been  warm  sunshine,  and  no  failure  of  the 
dews  nor  the  early  and  latter  rain.  But  grass  had 
not  grown  nor  flowers  blossomed  in  the  path  of 
that  desolating  tempest.  Nearly  twenty  years ! 
If  the  history  of  these  two  lives  during  that  long 
period  could  be  faithfully  written,  it  would  flood 
the  soul  with  tears. 

Four  years  later  than  the  time  when  we  last  pre- 
sented Irene  to  the  reader  we  introduce  her  again. 
That  meeting  in  the  picture-gallery  had  disturbed 
profoundly  the  quiet  pulses  of  her  life.  She  did 
not  observe  Mr.  Emerson's  companion.  The  pic- 
ture alone  had  attracted  her  attention ;  and  she  had 
just  began  to  feel  its  meaning  when  an  audible  sigh 
reached  her  ears.  The  answering  sigh  was  invol- 
untary. Then  they  looked  into  each  other's  faces 
again — only  for  an  instant — but  with  what  a 
volume  of  mutual  revelations ! 

It  was  four  years  subsequent  to  this  time  that 


296  AFTER  THE  STOKM. 

Irene,  after  a  brief  visit  in  New  York  to  her  friend, 
Mrs.  Everet,  returned  to  her  rural  home.  Mrs 
Everet  was  to  follow  on  the  next  day,  and  spend  a 
few  weeks  with  her  father.  It  was  yet  in  the  early 
summer,  and  there  were  not  many  passengers  on 
the  boat.  As  was  usual,  Irene  provided  herself 
with  a  volume,  and  soon  after  going  on  board  took 
a  retired  place  in  one  of  the  cabins  and  buried 
herself  in  its  pages.  For  over  three  hours  she 
remained  completely  absorbed  in  what  she  was 
reading.  Then  her  mind  began  to  wrander  and 
dwell  on  themes  that  made  the  even  pulses  of  her 
heart  beat  to  a  quicker  measure ;  yet  still  her  eyes 
remained  fixed  on  the  book  she  held  in  her  hand. 
At  length  she  became  aware  that  some  one  was 
near  her,  by  the  falling  of  a  shadow  on  the  page 
ehe  was  trying  to  read.  Lifting  her  head,  she  met 
the  eyes  of  Hartley  Emerson.  He  was  standing 
close  to  her,  his  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  a 
chair,  which  he  now  drew  nearly  in  front  of  her. 

"  Irene,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  quiet  voice,  "  I  am 
glad  to  meet  yon  again  in  this  world."  And  he 
reached  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke. 

For  a  moment  Irene  sat  very  still,  but  she  did 
not  take  her  eyes  from  Mr.  Emerson's  face ;  then 
ehe  extended  her  hand  and  let  it  lie  in  his.  He 
did  not  fail  to  notice  that  it  had  a  low  tremor. 

Thus  received,  he  sat  down. 

"  Nearly  twenty  years  have  passed,  Irene,  sine* 
a  word  or  sign  has  passed  between  us." 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  297 

Her  lips  moved,  but  there  was  no  utterance. 

"  Why  should  we  not,  at  least,  be  friends  ?" 

Her  lips  moved  again,  but  no  words  trembled 
on  the  air. 

"  Friends,  that  may  meet  now  and  then,  and  feel 
kindly  one  toward  the  other." 

His  voice  was  still  even  in  tone — very  even,  but 
very  distinct  and  impressive. 

At  first,  Irene's  face  had  grown  pale,  but  now  a 
warm  flush  was  pervading  it. 

"  If  you  desire  it,  Hartley,"  she  answered,  in  a 
voice  that  trembled  in  the  beginning,  but  grew 
firm  ere  the  sentence  closed,  "  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say,  '  No.'  As  for  kind  feelings,  they  are  yours 
always — always.  The  bitterness  passed  from  my 
heart  long  ago." 

"  And  from  mine,"  said  Mr.  Emerson. 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  each 
showed  embarrassment. 

"  Nearly  twenty  years !  That  is  a  long,  long 
time,  Irene."  His  voice  showed  signs  of  weakness. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  long  time."  It  was  a  mere  echo 
of  his  words,  yet  full  of  meaning. 

"  Twenty  years  !"  he  repeated.  "  There  has  been 
full  time  for  reflection,  and,  it  may  be,  for  repent- 
ance. Time  for  growing  wiser  and  better." 

Irene's  eyelids  drooped  until  the  long  lashes  lay 
in  a  dark  fringed  line  on  her  pale  cheeks.  When 
ehe  lifted  them  they  were  wet. 

"  Yes,  Hartley,"  she  answered  with  much  feeling, 


298  AFTER   THE  STORM. 

"there  has  been,  indeed,  time  for  reflection  and 
repentance.  It  is  no  light  thing  to  shadow  the 
whole  life  of  a  human  being." 

"  As  I  have  shadowed  yours. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered  quickly,  "  I  did  not 
mean  that ;  as  I  have  shadowed  yours." 

She  could  not  veil  the  tender  interest  that  was  in 
her  eyes ;  would  not,  perhaps,  if  it  had  been  in  her 
power. 

At  this  moment  a  bell  rang  out  clear  and  loud. 
Erene  started  and  glanced  from  the  window ;  then, 
rising  quickly,  she  said — 

"  We  are  at  the  landing." 

There  was  a  hurried  passage  from  cabin  to  deck, 
a  troubled  confusion  of  thought,  a  brief  period  of 
waiting,  and  then  Irene  stood  on  the  shore  and 
Hartley  Emerson  on  the  receding  vessel.  In  a  few 
hours  miles  of  space  lay  between  them. 

"  Irene,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Everet,  as  they  met 
at  Ivy  Cliff  on  the  next  day,  "  how  charming  you 
look !  This  pure,  sweet,  bracing  air  has  beautified 
you  like  a  cosmetic.  Your  cheeks  are  warm  and 
your  eyes  are  full  of  light.  It  gives  me  gladness 
of  heart  to  see  in  your  face  something  of  the  old 
look  that  faded  from  it  years  ago." 

Irene  drew  her  arm  around  her  friend  and  kissed 
her  lovingly. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  here  in  the  library.  I 
have  something  to  tell  you,"  she  answered,  "that 
will  make  your  heart  beat  quicker,  as  it  has  mine." 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  209 

"  I  have  met  him,"  she  said,  as  they  sat  down 
and  looked  again  into  each  other's  faces. 

"  Him !     Who  ?" 

"  Hartley." 

"  Your  husband  ?" 

"  He  who  was  my  husband.  Met  him  face  to 
face ;  touched  his  hand ;  listened  to  his  voice ;  al- 
most felt  his  heart  beat  against  mine.  Oh,  Rose 
darling,  it  has  sent  the  blood  bounding  in  new  life 
through  my  veins.  He  was  on  the  boat  yesterday, 
and  came  to  me  as  I  sat  reading.  We  talked  to- 
gether for  a  few  minutes,  when  our  landing  was 
reached,  and  we  parted.  But  in  those  few  minutes 
my  poor  heart  had  more  happiness  than  it  has 
known  for  twenty  years.  We  are  at  peace.  He 
asked  why  \re  might  not  be  as  friends  who  could 
meet  now  and  then,  and  feel  kirdly  toward  each 
other?  God  bless  him  for  the  words!  After  a 
long,  long  night  of  tears,  the  sweet  morning  has 
broken !" 

And  Irene  laid  her  head  down  against  Rose, 
hiding  her  face  and  weeping  from  excess  of  joy. 

"  What  a  pure,  true,  manly  face  he  has !"  she 
continued,  looking  up  with  swimming  eyes. 
"How  full  it  is  of  thought  and  feeling!  You 
called  him  my  husband  just  now,  Rose.  My  hus- 
band !"  The  light  went  back  from  her  face. 
"  Not  for  time,  but — "  and  she  glanced  upward, 
with  eyes  full  of  hope — "  for  the  everlasting  ages  ! 
Oh  is  it  not  a  great  gain  to  have  met  here  in  for- 


300  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

giveness  of  the  past — to  have  looked  kindly  into 
each  other's  faces — to  have  spoken  words  that 
cannot  die  ?" 

What  could  Rose  say  to  all  this?  Irene  had 
carried  her  out  of  her  depth.  The  even  tenor  of 
her  life-experiences  gave  no  deep  sea-line  that 
could  sound  these  waters.  And  so  she  sat  silent, 
bewildered  and  half  afraid. 

Margaret  came  to  the  library,  and,  opening  the 
door,  looked  in.  There  was  a  surprised  expression 
on  her  face. 

"  \Vhatis  it?"  Irene  asked. 

"  A  gentleman  has  called,  Miss  Irene." 

"  A  gentleman !" 

"  Yes,  miss ;  and  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Did  he  send  his  name  ?" 

"  No,  miss." 

"Do  you  know  him,  Margaret?" 

"  I  can't  say,  miss,  for  certain,  but — "  she 
stopped. 

"  But  what,  Margaret  ?" 

"  It  may  be  just  my  thought,  miss ;  but  he  looks 
for  all  the  world  as  if  he  might  be — " 

She  paused  again. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  it,  Miss  Irene,  no  how,  and  I  won't. 
But  the  gentleman  asked  for  you.  What  shall  I 
tell  him?" 

"That  I  will  see  him  in  a  moment,"  answered 
Irene. 


AFTER   THE  STORM.  30) 

Margaret  retired. 

The  face  of  Irene,  which  flushed  at  first,  now 
became  pale  as  ashes.  A  wild  hope  trembled  in 
her  heart. 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  few  minutes,"  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Everet,  and,  rising,  left  the  room. 

Jt  was  as  Irene  had  supposed.  On  entering  the 
parlor,  a  gentleman  advanced  to  meet  her,  and  she 
stood  face  to  face  with  Hartley  Emerson  1" 

"  Irene,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand. 

"  Hartley,"  fell  in  an  irrepressible  throb  from 
her  lips  as  she  put  her  hand  in  his. 

"  I  could  not  return  to  New  York  without  see- 
ing you  again,"  said  Mr.  Emerson,  as  he  stood 
holding  the  hand  of  Irene.  "  We  met  so  briefly, 
and  were  thrown  apart  again  so  suddenly,  that 
some  things  I  meant  to  say  were  left  unspoken." 

He  led  her  to  a  seat  and  sat  down  beside  her, 
still  looking  intently  in  her  face.  Irene  was  far 
from  being  as  calm  as  when  they  sat  together  the 
day  before.  A  world  of  new  hopes  had  sprung  up 
in  her  heart  since  then.  She  had  lain  half  asleep 
and  half  awake  nearly  all  night,  in  a  kind  of  de- 
licious dream,  from  which  the  morning  awoke  her 
with  a  cold  chill  of  reality.  She  had  dreamed 
again  since  the  sun  had  risen ;  and  now  the  dream 
was  changing  into  the  actual. 

u  Have  I  done  wrong  in  this,  Irene  ?"  he  asked. 

And  she  answered, 

"  No,  it  is  a  pleasure   to  meet  you,  Hartley." 


302  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

She  had  passed  through  years  of  self-discipline, 
and  the  power  acquired  during  this  time  came  to 
her  aid.  And  so  she  was  able  to  answer  with  wo- 
manly dignity.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  meet  him 
there,  and  she  said  so. 

"  There  are  some  things  in  the  past,  Irene/'  said 
Mr.  Emerson,  "  of  which  I  must  speak,  now  that 
I  can  do  so.  There  are  confessions  that  I  wish  to 
make.  Will  you  hear  me  ?" 

"Better,"  answered  Irene,  "let  the  dead  past 
bury  its  dead." 

"I  do  not  seek  to  justify  myself,  but  you, 
Irene." 

"  You  cannot  alter  the  estimate  I  have  made  of 
my  own  conduct,"  she  replied.  "  A  bitter  stream 
does  not  flow  from  a  sweet  fountain.  That  dead, 
dark,  hopeless  past !  Let  it  sleep  if  it  will !" 

"And  what,  then,  of  the  future?'7  asked  Mr. 
Emerson. 

"Of  the  future!"  The  question  startled  her. 
She  looked  at  him  with  a  glance  of  eager  inquiry. 

"Yes,  of  the  future,  Irene.  Shall  it  be  as  the 
past?  or  have  we  both  come  up  purified  from  the 
fire?  Has  it  consumed  the  dross,  and  left  only  the 
fine  gold?  I  can  believe  it  in  your  case,  and  hope 
that  it  is  so  in  mine.  But  this  I  do  know,  Irene : 
after  suffering  and  trial  have  done  their  WDrk  of 
abrasion,  and  I  get  down  to  the  pure  metal  of  my 
heart,  I  find  that  your  image  is  fixed  there  in  the 
imperishable  substance.  I  did  not  hope  to  meet 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  303 

you  again  in  this  world  as  now — to  look  into  your 
face,  to  hold  your  hand,  to  listen  to  your  voice  as 
I  have  done  this  day — but  I  have  felt  that  God 
was  fitting  us  through  earthly  trial,  for  a  heavenly 
union.  We  shall  be  one  hereafter,  dear  Irene — 
one  and  for  ever  I" 

The  strong  man  broke  down.  His  voice  fell 
into  low  sobs — tears  blinded  his  vision.  He' groped 
about  for  the  hand  of  Irene,  found  it,  and  held  it 
wildly  to  his  lips. 

Was  it  for  a  loving  woman  to  hold  back  coldly 
now  ?  No,  no,  no  !  That  were  impossible. 

"My  husband!"  she  said,  tenderly  and  rever- 
ently, as  she  placed  her  saintly  lips  on  his  forehead 


There  was  a  touching  ceremonial  at  Ivy  Cliff  on 
the  next  day — one  never  to  be  forgotten  by  the  few 
who  were  witnesses.  A  white-haired  minister — the 
same  who,  more  than  twenty  years  before,  had  said 
to  Hartley  Emerson  and  Irene  Delancy,  "  May 
your  lives  flow  together  like  two  pure  streams  thai 
meet  in  the  same  valley," — again  joined  theii 
hands  and  called  them  "  husband  and  wife.'1  The 
long,  dreary,  tempestuous  night  had  passed  away, 
and  the  morning  arisen  in  brightness  and  beauty. 

THE    END. 


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